All Screwed Up but Marchin' On
by Ember Carsyn
Summary: Casey Ewart is a recovering GCPD officer. As she fights against her time in the tunnels during the occupation, she watches as her fiance, Robin John Blake, becomes Batman's replacement, wondering if she'll be the Gordon to his Batman, or if they'll actually stay engaged, or even marry. Not to mention she wants her job back, whether or not her head is in the right place.
1. Prologue

Prologue-

It's never fun to have nightmares, recurring nightmares are always the worst. Overtime, you find some way to cope, if you're lucky you don't turn into an insomniac. I spent so much time sleeping and exercising, exercising and sleeping, that I've learned to just do sit-ups or push-ups until I collapse and then curl up and fall back to sleep. But that doesn't stop the nightmares, and my sleep is barely enough to keep me alive. Which is why I'm laying awake here at two am.  
Here in the hospital, they don't let me do that, they just give me some drug to knock me out, that traps me in th nightmares, back in the tunnels and sewers, back where I can't get out. Just like right now. I was lucky enough to get airlifted out, no questions asked, to a military hospital and put into a private room, and no one ever asks me about what happened, they just keep me alive, and wait until they can let me go. It's a quiet existance, but to have some space to myself, it's wierd. After being trapped with pretty much every single co-worker, some that I've never met because of shifts, some that I respected, some that I knew were on the take-it was a confessional in that regard-I was used to being surrounded. Probably why they let me have the television on all the time, some day-time soap or some movie playing at a low enough volume not to be more than white noise.  
I only have a few things left with me. My uniform was burned because of the state it was in, my boots were falling apart, my watch's face was shattered, I'd given my gun and baton to the nearest still standing officer when I'd fallen. All I had with me was my ID, driver's license, badge, ring, and, somewhere, a battered debit card that I'd used as a tool, but that had my banking number on it. I didn't have a cellphone, I didn't have my knife (I'd broken it in an escape attempt), and I was alone. I didn't even know if anyone knew where I was, since, according to Fox, everything was in shambles-GCN wasn't back up yet, although I'd knew that they'd be trying to at least get a radio station up and broadcasting, for emergency bullitins and etcetera. I could close my eyes and figure out what would be going on. I knew that, even though he was still recovering from getting shot up in the sewers, Gordon would be running the show. The military was helping out, but hadn't taken jurisdiction because GCPD, headed by the surviving MCU officers, were standing up proud and strong. Those cops who had participated in the confessional had come forth and issued statements of apology, and that they were going to surrunder their badges as soon as Gotham was safe. Lists were updated every day of survivors, injured, and dead. I didn't look because I knew the pain would be too great. I was on the severly injured list, as in those who had to be rushed to the nearest hospitals that were ready fast enough to accomodate the trauma. I'd just be one tiny name in the hundreds, maybe thousands-Officer Casey Ewart, GCPD MCU SWAT. And for that? I felt like a wuss, not good enough to survive and not get all shot up. I had let myself slide in the months underground.

A knock on the door breaks me out of the reverie. The medical personnel don't usually knock. "What the fuck?"  
The door opens a crack and my former partner, from before I got an elusive position on the MCU SWAT team stuck his head around. "Heya Casey." He seems tired, and he's dressed like he came from a funeral. "You doin' okay?"  
"What's it look like punk?" I push myself up carefully, wary of the one by one inches of chicken wire in my gut from the hit I took to my stomach, and of the shoulder injury and, well, the list is extensive, so don't ask, please.  
He rushes in and helps me, fluffing the pillows, and I hiss under my teeth. "Seeming the same old blood and vinegar Ewart. I'm sorry I didn't get you out in time." He knows my team was one of the last to file into the tunnels through the monorail terminal in the Narrows. Yeah, we were the team that was bold enough to patrol the Narrows, the last vestige of crime in Gotham, something that all the stats hid. It had to be suckish there now. A tingle of want emerges, but I know I'm desk bound now probably, dammit.  
"I'd say it's okay, but it's not. You were the one guy who believed the truth. I should have listened to you." I try not to close my eyes, but it doesn't stop the images floating in front of me of all the friends I lost over the occupation of Gotham. "You were the detective, and I was just not wanting to deal with that shit. I wasn't even supposed to be on duty-I had that knee injury and all. I had a brace on, and a few ibuprofen in my system, and guts." I snort. "Guess I don't have the guts anymore."  
Blake sits down in the chair next to me and idly touches the ring on the nightstand. "You want out, don't you? You hate me that much?"  
I shrug, and wince at the sligth twinge from my shoulder. It's getting better, but still. "You want out? You could've tried to call, flashed your badge or something."  
"Ummm..." Blake sets down a copy of the Gotham Gazette on my lap and I see that the headline is some shit about Bruce Wayne, but also the death of the Batman, trumpteted "unrelated" about the two.  
"Oh spit it out," I pick up the Gazette and flip through it. I always thought Wayne could've been a real looker if he tried, but that sleazeball attitude just made me want to shoot him. Besides, he wasn't my type. I preferred people who knew how to work for a living, like Blake.  
"I threw my badge off the bridge when the state troopers didn't let us over?"  
"Oh God. You were on the bridge when they blew it..." I instantly started checking him over for any signs of injuries, but I don't see any.  
"I'm fine Casey. I'm fine." He puts a reassuring hand gently on my left hand, and I almost feel like crying. I've missed him; I've been worried sick, and the first time I see him he sneaks in here at two in the morning. "Also, I know this is rushing you, but I need to know-are we calling this off?"  
He holds up the engagement ring he'd given me just a few short weeks before the occupation shit began. Ironically, we'd already set a date, and that date was the day we'd broken the seige, with a little help from Batman. I was jealous that I'd never met the guy, and now he was dead.  
I close my eyes and try to imagine what life will be like when I get out. My apartment complex was blown to smitherns in the blasts from what I gathered, I wasn't sure if I had a job, even as a desk flunky, and well...I focused on trying to picture life with Robin (he lets me use his first name when we're off-duty and co-workers aren't around), or if a life without him would be better. My mind waffles, and then decides, strongly, in favor of life with him. "I'm not. You?"  
"I've got a rather dangerous new job that's entirely pro bono, so..."  
I raise an eyebrow at him, and I suddenly realize that something's changed about him. "You're not exhausted like you usually are this late at night."  
"I became a bit of a night person?"  
"This new job of yours..." I cock my head to one side and smile at him as he slides my engagement ring back onto my finger. "This wouldn't have to do with why you're showing me this article about the death of Batman right?"  
"About that..." He takes the magazine and flips to a page that shows Bruce Wayne, and bends the pages so that it's side by side of a picture of Batman from a security camera from God-knows-where that was cleaned up heavily, both standing in the same manner. "See anything?"  
I peered closely, noting the make-up hiding dark circles under Wayne's eyes and the fact that the picture is from Rachel Dawes' funeral, and then I realize that the gaze is the same in both pictures, along with the resolute set of the mouth. "Oh God...you're telling me that..."  
"Yeah. I figured it around the time when Gordon was shot, and I really put my mind to it because Gordon asked for him. The Batman that is. I was going to tell you, but well..."  
"Shit happened." I remembered the argument that we'd had the last time I'd seen him before I'd heard his voice screaming on the radio to pull everyone out of the tunnels. "And by the way, I'm sorry about that. You're right. Regular sheets are awesome. Any sheets are awesome."  
He laughes, and gives me a half smile. "I'd forgotten about that."  
I shake my head and laugh, and the noise brings a nurse to poke her head in. "Heya Winchester," I greet her by name, having played 21 with her and a couple of the other nice nurses when I couldn't sleep a few times. "This is my fiance-ex Detective Blake of GCPD. He's staying," I turn to Robin. "Right babe?"  
He kisses my forehead. "Of course-whatever you want love."  
Winchester smiles. "I'll get you a cot Mr. Blake."  
"Call me John, please ma'am."  
"Then don't ma'am me. I'm old but not THAT old dearie. Call me Winchester, or Winnie." She bustles out of the room and I smile at Robin.  
"You mean it?"  
"Of course," he kisses me on the lips this time. "You need to sleep though babe. It's two am Casey."  
"Nightmares." I mutter, letting him in on the dark secret I hide, knowing that if we're going to go on with our engagement and eventually get married, that I'll need to let him into the loop of things.  
He squeezes my hand. "Sleep. I've still got a permit to carry thanks to Gordon and I'll stay right here to keep you safe."  
"Kay," I whisper, smiling gratefully at him as he helps me to lie back down. "I can leave in a week or so, if the internal shit is better and I've got my nutritional levels more normalized."  
"Good," He smiled at me and squeezed my hand again. "Goodnight Casey."  
"G'night Robin."

**AN: I don't own Batman, only my OC's and ideas. **

**Yeah, I need to finish editing "So you're..." but the plot bunnies came while I was being forced to watch The Education of Little Tree (cinema class...) and I decided to indulge. Reviews are chocolate or virgin forms of alcoholic beverages (or just cherry cola). **


	2. Chapter 1

**AN: I know that some people have theories on when the siege of Gotham took place. I'm theorizing, because it was in the American football season starts in September, and the bomb survives for five months, that the siege started sometime in late September, and the siege ended the end of February. The prologue takes place in the end of March, and I'm only guessing because, guess what? I don't own any of this except Casey and my ideas. Also: warning: author's creative license is used along with a minor amount of language. Thanks to anonymousisthewaytogo. I hope I don't make you regret deciding to follow this; it makes me happy that someone was interested enough to hit follow though.**

JUNE

Chapter One-

"Hey, I'm trying to get some service here." I yell at the man on the phone, finally sick and tired of waiting, holding onto my pile of x-rays and charts and psychiatric evaluations. "Police officer here." It's a bit of a fib. I talked to Gordon at the end of April. I'm technically still drawing a pension from the force, but I'm off the force pending an inquiry into my fitness and into allegations made by my former SWAT team members, including those who didn't make it. They'd left notes to people saying I'd done all these things that I hadn't done. I hadn't heard from him since. Blake had dinner at the house weekly, but was I ever invited?

"Ma'am, if you could please..." The man is still on his phone, wanting to go back to chatting about his favorite massage parlors. I'd taken notes. Apparently the city could still be in shambles, but massage parlors were back in business with a vengeance. I guess the feds weren't cracking down on that industry yet.

I hold up the confirmation slip for my appointment. "I have an appointment for two hours ago. I've been passed over, and I'm considering reporting all of you at this office for your lack of professionalism, and courtesy. You call yourselves fucking professionals?"

"Casey Ewart?" A simpering nurse stood in the doorway looking at me with eyes wide with fear and I realize that maybe losing my temper won't help with those inquires. "I'm sorry for the wait. We had to wait for some paperwork from the base you were airlifted to."

"I have it on me." I grabbed my purse and stalked after her, texting Blake that I'd finally gotten some service quickly as I was led into a spartan little room to wait for the shrink.

"I'm sorry Ms. Ewart, we needed to wait for some paperwork concerning your health insurance that had been mistakenly sent to the base."  
"My insurance?" I looked around the room, at the dark color palette, and felt the walls closing in on me, a familiar tightness in my throat warning me that one of my panic attacks was coming on. Come on girl, you could calm yourself in order to take a long range shot upwind, you can do this, I think to myself, forcing myself to breathe in and out slowly. In three seconds, out three seconds, in three seconds, out three seconds, waiting, always waiting, waiting so much.

"I'm afraid that unless you get a special waiver from the GCPD, you're going to have to find an alternate method of insurance. I can get you some pamphlets for COBRA and the other aid programs..."

"Why do I need a special waiver?" I reached for my phone, reading to call the number for the precinct where the command center was currently located and yell at someone.

"I'm not sure, you're flagged as a yellow under policy J19Alpha2345-671." The nurse handed me a wad of financial assistance pamphlets. "This is your last appointment covered by your insurance. If Doctor Utger determines you need any medications to help your insomnia you'll need to find a way to pay for it. I'm sorry I can't help more. You'll have to call your insurance."

"Can I do that now?"

A man in a white lab coat with Doctor Midas Utger in scrawled embroidery on the front stepped into the room and shook his head. "You can deal with that later Ms. Ewart. Until then, Anna, you can go now, I'll see if I can't find a way to help Ms. Ewart with her insomnia."

"It's gone," I lie, hoping he'd be one of the oblivious guys who couldn't tell when a woman had used cold cream and make-up to hide the dark circles.  
"I'm afraid your fiance was worried you'd say that. He called in and let us know you were still staying up most nights until odd hours and sleeping in odd hours in return."

"You're fucking kidding me." I pick up my phone and start to dial Blake, but Utger takes it from me and sets it on the counter out of reach. "What was that for? That's mine."

"I'm Dr. Utger, as you may have figured out Ms. Ewart. In order to have this appointment you signed a list of guidelines included no cellular devices while in an appointment. You're showing increasing anger compared to what the military informed me of in your files," He opened up my chart and started to take notes somewhere on it. "It says here you have PTSD."

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to calm myself down so I don't show any more of this stupid increasing anger thing. Instead of calming myself, I see the faces of my colleagues, the dark, the noises, I hear the shooting, the screams, I relive facing down the camo tumbler, diving out of the way as Miranda Tate comes screaming past, the queen bitch. "I'm fine. Everything's just all screwed up with work." I don't tell him I don't know if I ever want to go back to work in law enforcement, or anywhere. Going outside the little apartment I found for myself is a big major hassle that I have to hide from Robin the best I can. Of course, that's when Robin is actually around. He's still the sweet guy from the hospital, but I'm still confused as to what the new job he meant really is. He's working for the new orphanage out at the old Wayne Manor right now, doing the night shift apparently. So he's sleeping right now, the lucky jerk. Being an insomniac was starting to wear down on me.

"Ms. Ewart?" Dr. Utger's voice breaks through my thoughts as I start to wonder if anything would have been different in life if I hadn't survived, if maybe GCPD would actually care and my coworkers would've not turned around and stabbed me in the back multiple times. "Ms. Ewart?"

"How was the appointment love?" Robin asked, giving me a hug instantly and immediately when he opened the door, knowing the look on my face.  
"It went well." I smile at him, and hug him back. "I just don't have anymore health insurance until I get a job."

"You're giving up with GCPD?" Robin lets me in, and I collapse onto the coach, pretending that it's just the stress from having to wait so long to talk to a doctor who told me that I needed to get insurance as soon as possible and that for some reason, the military hadn't found out that I was severely traumatized and Utger recommended that I get medications and withdraw my reapplication and all of that stuff.

"I haven't heard anything from Gordon, internal affairs is all over my arse, come on, what are my chances?" I got up and padded to his fridge, wrinkling my nose at the meager contents and the sight of last week's leftover Chinese take-out. "Oh God...really Robin?" I yanked out the nearest can of soda and popped it open deftly, taking a long guzzle of it, not caring about appearing lady-like. I was used to being around guys who didn't give a shit, since I was the newest playbunny.

"I've been busy, and I haven't felt like Chinese." He reaches past me and takes it out, it carefully. "It should still be good."

I grab the container and toss it into the trash. "The sniff test does not work when you didn't even cover it properly. It's going to taste like everything else you have in here." I sit at the little table in the nook of the kitchen and look at him expectantly. "So..back to me and GCPD. I'm falsely accused, internal affairs believes my accusers because they're heroes, and I'm not because of what the heroes say, and I'm fine but I'm not getting cleared for some reason to return to duty. And Gordon, well, he isn't talking to me."

"He's trying to heal a city that's been pulled apart into chaos, where apparently having internal affairs going on witch hunts is a priority over the narrows. It's back to normal, especially since with the end of the Dent Act, we can't get some of the criminals we need to lock up in order to solve the problems we have."

"We?" I take a sip of my soda, arching one eyebrow in a show of emotion before slapping the face I used when I had to question suspects in the field for the detectives or at the scene of an accident or something like that. "You quit. Threw your badge over a bridge. It's in the sludge at the bottom of the lake Robin Blake. What do you mean by we?"

He sits across from me and his face slides into his own matching mask. "Babe, do we have to do this?"

"You brought it up love," I started playing idly with the ring on my finger. "Don't you have to get to work?"

"You're the one that came over Casey. What's going on?" Robin stood up and pulled an apple out of the fruit bowl, biting into it in silence (or rather, as much as possible), until finally responding to my question. "I have ten minutes until I have to leave."

"We just going to argue about this?"

"Don't give up Casey."

"Everything's all screwed up." I put my head in my hands. "I want my job back."

He was quiet, but he moved through the room. I could only hear him because I was so nervous as to how he'd respond. "Here." He sets a piece of paper in front of me, eight digits written on it. "Try around eleven o'clock or midnight. Use a payphone that's not near here or your place."

"Oh sure, sure double oh idiot. What's this supposed to do?"

"Put you in touch with someone who can't help you officially but is waiting for you to reach out and ask for help Casey. You need to lose that pride. Also, Dr. Utger called. I'm putting you on my health plan through the city as soon as it comes through properly. You're going to take the damn meds he wants you on."

"Isn't it fucked up that everything got fixed so fast for the health care and all that?" My comment is punctuated by the sounds of sirens, shots, and construction. "Alright, alright, it just seems to be. Have you tried driving on West Van Halen recently?" I know it won't help to tell him that I'm just going to throw the pills out. Let him make a nice gesture and all.

"I try to avoid there. It's where I was when the bombs went off and I had to rush to the hospital."

"Not a single thought spared for me?" I don't pout, I just point out what was probably the truth. We'd had a pretty major argument about sheets, of all things. I close my eyes instead, and focus on where I was, just inside that tunnel, hearing the explosion, my ears ringing, so that the screams were silent, sprinting, then running back and trying to get Benny Davito out of the rubble, hoping I could save him, instead watching him die, unable to do anything but nod at him as his last words were silent, the ringing incessant in my ears.

"Casey?" Robin is kneeling in front of me, one hand holding onto my left hand, a finger on the ring, and the other is on my cheek, caressing it softly. "Baby, you okay?"

"I will be. Just let me find something normal." I hiss, standing up and pulling away from the romantic gesture he was trying to make.

"I didn't know you were down there. Ask Gordon next time you talk to him. Soon as he was in the Subaru I'd jacked using my badge, I took him to your place, and you weren't there, and neither was your uniform, and then I knew. Ask him what happened next."

"You seem ashamed."

"He'd just gotten shot, and he was out of the hospital, and you know I barely passed EMT." He grabbed my arm, and I shrugged it off, not wanting to get into a brawl, so not pushing too hard, but Robin got the memo. "You've changed Casey, and I don't know what to say to you."

So he walked out, knowing that when I got over my practice as a statue in the middle of his kitchen-living room I'd lock up using the key he'd given me, just in case I had nightmares. I knew what I'd do too. I'd go down the Safeway between our two apartments, buy one of those little one size servings of ice cream and a jar of hot fudge, then go home, stopping at the bakery next to my apartment building and buying a brownie probably the last one, and then warming it up with the hot fudge in my microwave and dumping the ice cream on top of it, then bon appetite I wouldn't cry, I wouldn't rage, I wouldn't do anything, but solemnly read and eat that brownie and ice cream. Then I'd brush my teeth and go to bed, but not before my evening ritual of cleaning my gun and checking the equipment I'd salvaged somehow from my old apartment and that had been, somehow, still in my locker at headquarters. This time though, I set the alarm for ten forty-five, knowing that I could drive fifteen minutes cross town to get to a little all-night diner where I used to meet a friend who'd occasionally serve as my informant, but in other situations was my closest friend. She was no where to be found, I hadn't heard from her, and I knew her-she'd have used the chaos to escape and live it up. So it's a trip to a good memory that I'm taking.

I oversleep somehow. It's eleven thirty when I wake up to a text from Robin telling me he loves me, and that he hopes I call the number. I don't even bother to brush my hair, I just French braid it as I slide my feet into a pair of wannabe Ugg type boots lined with some sort of cozy fuzzy material, grabbing my keys and wallet, tucking a gun into the back of my shorts from the safe I'd hidden from everyone's discovery. The Fiat I'd obtained using the last of my money from the settlement after dad's death was waiting in the carport, thankfully not stolen or vandalized, and I put the pedal to the metal in an attempt to make it to the little diner in less than fifteen minutes. Less than ten would be ideal.

I make it in ten exactly, skidding around the corner on a road that's wet from a hydrant that exploded. Obviously there's a lot of work still to be done. I can't help but notice that my hands shake, and that I'd actually slept with only minimal dreams, where Dad was screaming at me that I was a failure and a waste of his sperm and that I should've died and mom should've lived when the burglar had broken in when I was five. Eight numbers, each number accompanied by a prayer that whoever was on the other line would actually be able to help.

It rang six times before someone picked up. "Hello?"

"Hello, this is Casey Ewart. I'm calling because my fiance told me that you'd be able to help me get my job back."

"Officer Ewart, it's about time. There's a lot we need to talk about."

"It's good to be called an Officer again." I smile, sitting down on the booth type seat next to the phone and shoving in a few more quarters as a precaution. "What do you need me to do?"


	3. Chapter 2

**AN: Before reading, please note that not only do I not own Batman or etc (only Casey and any other original characters), I also need to note that any police procedures are fictitious, and not based on anything except a quick Google search. Thanks to the reviewers, the followers, and etc. I'm not proud of this, but it's filler that needed to happen. **

Chapter Two-

I unlocked my apartment door slowly and quietly, one hand curled around the Glock Robin had given me that used to be his. For some reason Gordon had let him keep his service handgun, probably for safety, but then, I never knew. Robin didn't talk about it. He might have even just taken advantage of the chaos and walked off with it, although the old Robin would never do something like that. The new Robin? All bets are off.

I've left most of the lights on a dim enough setting so that the rooms don't remind me of the tunnels. I hate the dark. I used to love to come home from a long shift that undoubtedly, because it's Gotham here people, ran long, to the point of almost being a double shift sometimes, and just lay in the tub in the flickering light of a few candles, letting all the stiffness seep out before catching as many z's as I could before I had to go back on duty, or before I had to do whatever was next on the list. Now I can't even save money and leave my empty (and new) apartment with only a couple lights on. It has to be enough not to remind me of the flares that a few people had somehow had with them, or the streamlights, alternating who would use theirs to point up at the ceiling for a maximum illumination. I sleep with the light on, and I do my best to never bring anyone here, so that no one can see the complete and utter departure from the person I used to be. The dishes are done—I don't have travel mugs and cups waiting to be cleaned anymore; there isn't a table set aside for reloading for my personal firearms and for cleaning my guns. There isn't even a gun safe, because under the new laws, guns are rather heavily regulated (not that it does any good). If someone were to find out that I had the Glock, I'd be up locked up, or worse. I actually fold and put away my laundry now, not just having a set of baskets, one labeled clean and the other labeled dirty. Everything is alphabetized and color coordinated, and there's bright cheery colors, not the dark, tactical and utilitarian colors that used to dominate my life. The only bit of normality I cling to is the long runs and the work-outs at the tiny gym that had managed to open its doors already. Even Robin, my fiancé, the guy I should be able to consider a slice of normality, isn't himself anymore.

I clear the apartment quickly, checking the markers I'd slid in doors and removing them, knowing that even though it's almost one in the morning. I'm probably going to end up on the couch watching Hallmark channel's sappy cheesiness, while filling out financial support applications and job applications, and maybe even looking into some of the free clinics in town that still have their doors propped open that might have some counseling support. I don't want counseling, but Gordon was insistent. Get a counselor, seek out help, get them to fight on my behalf. The tiny bit of chicken wire in my stomach shouldn't be the problem, since it miraculously doesn't stop me from doing crunches and other things. I might even be able to get it out, although that'd mean another surgery. I was waiting on those test results, and I had to find insurance of some sort anyways.

Most people would probably have someone they could call in this situation, depressed, lonely, terrified of the shadows, wanting desperately to be their old, strong selves again. I don't. I have once a week covert calls to my old boss, who is setting time aside to help me as he puts a city back together again, because, and I quote "_you're one of the best I've got Casey, and I need you back. If I can get you back, believe me, they won't be able to slam you down because of rank.´_

Rank. Yeah. I was going to get promoted if I got back on the force. The problem was, even though its now inching closer to my grasp, I'm not at all sure if I want to go back for any reason other than seeking out the old me and trying to find that normality again and, in a salute to the person I was before the terror of the tunnels, be a walking talking what now to everyone who said I couldn't do it. I couldn't be a police officer. An image flashes through my mind of the day Dad was talking in the kitchen about how women need a man to do yardwork and work on cars, and other jobs. I remember it so clearly because I held the letter in my hand that would tell me whether or not I got a job with GCPD. I shake it off though, as I remember the look on his face when I told him I was going to take the job I was offered.

I wish for a moment that Starbucks was still open, so I could order a venti liquid cocaine so that I'd have a reason not to stay up all night. Since coming back here, the dreams were more vivid. Sometimes I was even confronting Bane personally, not hearing what he was saying on a crank radio Robin had smuggled to us, when I could get close enough to where the higher echelon stuck down here was encamped.

Shit. I pull the notebook from beside my bed and scribble down the date and time. _I referred to the tunnels as here again. _I put the notebook away, the ever present tiny little pen tucked inside, waiting for the next time. I was keeping a log of the shit that my mind was doing to me, hidden from everyone except myself. This was the fourth or fifth notebook. I don't like remembering the numbers.

I crawl into bed, not bothering to change really, just shucking off my bra and belt, leaving my jeans on. I got used to sleeping in my clothes. It's become habitual almost.

My cell phone rings, and I pick it up, not bothering to look at who's calling, not caring really. "Ewart." My voice is a snap, just like whenever I'd answer my old cell when it rang with a work call. I'm groggy, because surprisingly sleep had sought me out, and I'd actually slept for a few hours.

"Heya Casey." The voice was soft and gentle, and familiar. I close my eyes for a moment and I place the male voice on the other end of the line. A quick glance at the clock tells me it's eleven am, and I revise my thoughts on a few hours to actually something resembling a normal night's sleep. Of course, I did take a bunch of Benadryl for my allergies before I'd gone to the payphone rendezvous.

"George—long time no hear from." George was the one nice guy on the team I was on. Rumor has it he's one of the team leaders now, but I'm not sure. "What's going on that necessitates you calling me?"

"Ouch—so suspicious, really Casey? I know that's hazard of the job, but it's me."

"Yeah, and it's been quite some time since the siege broke and you could've found me and called me when I was trapped in a bed or anything," I point out, as I pad into the kitchen, before reaching into the cupboard for the mint oreos and popping one in my mouth quickly to stop myself from continuing with my diatribe.

"Little matter of escapees and crazies and all that shit. I think you might be partially familiar with that?" He returns my exchange with his own bit of snark. That's one of the good things about George. "You still with Blake? Hear he made detective as a field commission and got a bit big for his britches."

"He's working nights at the orphanage, he sleeps most of the day, I'm on my own personal clock, so I hardly see him." I try to keep my voice neutral, talking through the last bit of the oreo still in my mouth as I savor the flavorings, but I fail. My bitterness seeps through around the edges, and I know that George, as well trained as he is, will notice.

"So things aren't that great Casey." It isn't a question, it's a statement, and George is one of the few that can get away with it without me flying into a rage, even mentally.

"He's a completely different person now George. I know we all changed from what happened, but still….he doesn't even try to have sex or anything. His kisses are tired and detached. I don't even know if he really wants to stay engaged to me George."

An intake of breath on the other end of the line reminds me, painfully, that George had just gotten a painful divorce finalized right before we got trapped. His kids were, luckily, out of the city with their mom, across the pond so to speak in their new home with the boyfriend who'd been the affair. It sucked that most of my former brethren, no, current, if I had anything to say about it, had had shit luck in the relationship department. A few thrived, but some, even the ones that I thought would work, well, most of the relationships in general, tanked at some point. Some of those who'd succeeded were the ones who did what it took to ensure a spot where they'd come home. All the people at MCU didn't have stable relationships, except the office personnel. Go figure.

"Sorry." I whisper. "How's MCU?"

"I'm actually not allowed to talk about that with you. I only called to warn you IA is coming to see you soon. They're pretty sure you're a culprit."

"Fuck them." I hiss, grabbing another oreo, eating it like it would save me from IA. "I can't believe that IA is worrying about things like this instead of worrying about fixing up the shit that Bane created."

"Yeah, I agree." A beeping in the background, the alert signal for whoever was sitting at the precinct instead of out patrolling goes off. "Shit. I gotta go Casey. Call me?"

I make a snort. "As if. I'm not going to screw you over. I've got a solid chance."

"Suit yourself. I'm here if you need to talk. And let's get together over some drinks sometime to hash out and see if I can recognize some warning signs. You and Blake are perfect for each other, in my head."

"Yeah, and in my head you and Kristy would still be happily married."

"Touche." The line goes dead, typical George, and I wonder what the situation is. Would whoever breached first come home? Who had George's back in my place? What…..

I shake my head and open the fridge, pulling out the lettuce shreds and ranch dressing, before putting together a quick salad, replacing the oreos in my hand with croutons liberally added to the salad. "So it begins," I mutter, before opening Robin's laptop and starting to fill out the paperwork, not even bothering with the TV, just cranking up the GCPD scanner, in an attempt to slowly reenter the life I was trying to tell myself I wanted back so badly. Of course, it was a shitty idea.

Robin found me curled up in a corner of the kitchen, crying, broken dishes scattering the room a few hours later, the computer still playing the scanner, and my mouth blindly hurling insults at Phillip, the guy in charge of the SWAT team currently running a serious situation. He, my fiancé that is, had let himself in with the key he'd insisted on, violating my personal sanctuary, turning the scanner off, causing me to point the Glock at him until he turned it back on, albeit quieter.

"Casey…." He whispered, "Babe…."

Of course, he told me all of this when I woke up, after, according to him, he had to Vulcan neck pinch me to get me to calm down. I stared at him angrily from the couch, feeling hurt and scared. "What happened? Did they…."

"They're fine Casey. I'm more worried about you. What the hell? When did this start?"

"It's been going on for a while. I'm damaged goods, and my fiancé is hardly ever around." The words slice through the air, and the hurt on his face, the confusion, the sorrow, it's too much. I close my eyes and open them quickly, like my eyelids are the plague, at the image of the tunnels and the disaster that struck when Bane's guys launched grenades down there for fun.

He sits down hard, a bit stunned maybe, but maybe just sitting down hard because he felt like it—I can never tell with him now—on the couch next to me, rubbing his jaw with one hand, yawning. I notice a yellowing bruise on his jaw, and I wonder where it came from, and why I didn't notice it before. Oh wait, he's never around that much, and when he is, we don't spend too much time extremely close. Not anymore. All we do is argue. "Casey…I…."

"You tell me about some mysterious new job, and then you end up at an orphanage, and you never bring up your random 'hey Casey Bruce Wayne is Batman' moment, and that pisses me the hell off, you know that right?" I want to scream and yell at him, but I know that Mrs. K, my neighbor, has a kid who has a nap around four pm, right now. So instead, I punch him with the heel of my hand, like I was trained at the academy, hitting him squarely in the jaw, right where I saw that bruise. But I don't feel satisfied. I feel like he let me hit him, and I _hate _it when people let me hit them out of any reasoning—whether it's because I'm a girl, because they want to humor the SWAT chick, or what.

"Casey….I can't!"

"You can't what?" I look at him, angrily, then take a deep breath. "Actually, never-mind Blake, never-mind." I slide the ring off my finger and put it in my jeans pocket. "Just get out. I'll call you when I'm ready to deal with your shit."

He doesn't leave, instead he pulls me close into a hug, and rubs the small of my back, like he always does when I've had a bad day or when something is wrong. It used to soothe me, but now it makes me feel like a little child. I pull away, twisting his arm behind his back, his elbow in line with my belly button, his wrist bent just enough so that if he tries anything…..

"Well, at least you can still do that. That's normal Casey. You still put people you're pissed at in a bent wrist and apply a little pain compliance." He twists himself out of the position, something I don't remember him ever doing before, or being able to do, and stands up quickly. "You're a mess Casey. You think I don't know about your power bill, or about how you clear every room multiple times, even when you're home, and you jump at lots of things. Get your act together Casey and hurry up and decide if you want to let this get to you, or if you want to be able to just stride back into the MCU precinct, no matter what position Gordon gives you, and be yourself again. You're not the same woman I proposed to."

"You're not the guy who proposed to me either Blake." I sneer, standing up and wishing I had my Glock on me. He'd taken it and put it somewhere when he'd first arrived. "Give me the key."

"No. Someone needs to be able to get in to make sure you haven't done something stupid." He pushes me back down on the couch and reaches for my jeans pocket, grabbing the ring out of it and holding it up, right in front of my face. "I love you babe, but this is an intervention, the best I can do without calling in someone who'll wreck shit up for you with GCPD. You're not the only cop in this mess. You're just the only female who has charges like this, and was injured like you were, and wants to come back. A lot of the department is new hires now. GCPD has gotten itself a good reputation."

"Fuck you," I hiss, punching him again, this time in the ribs, and he winces, gasping for breath for a moment.

"I wish you hadn't done that babe…I have a cracked rib."

"How the fuck did you get that, huh babe?" I stand back up, forcing him to let me, and cross my arms over my chest. "You know what Blake honey? Anytime you want to quit being a jackass and let me back into the secrets you're keeping, you can come back, but until then, I'm going to consider you an intruder and treat you as such. You know my mantra for intruders hasn't changed since I moved here to Gotham, right?" _Shoot first, then ask questions, and if they don't survive the shooting, I feared for my life because it's Gotham. _

"I love you Casey, but this relationship is broken and I can't do anything until you make an attempt."

"Make an attempt?" I laugh, a snide bark of laughter that lets him know what my opinion is of his bullshit. "You know, Gordon actually told me a few interesting things about you last night, about what you did for him and for the resistance. He also ratted you out. You don't think I have what it takes to go back to my old job."

"You don't Casey. You're never going to be the same officer you once were because of your injuries. When are you going to listen to any of the medical _professionals_?"

I sigh, and lash out quickly, trying to take him down and put him into another arrest method, preferably felony prone, and I'm surprised at how he lashes back, predicting my moves, fighting with a skill I didn't know he had. I end up in felony prone quickly, and he puts his knee on my back.

"See, you need to get your game much better than that before you can hit the streets. Take the desk position, suck up to IA and get that desk job. File papers, it's a fringe position in the brotherhood, but you were the sister that pissed the guys off before you bested them." He whispered the words in my ear, before kissing my neck and standing up, helping me up. "I'm serious when I say I love you Casey, but I'm serious when I say that, unfortunately, I don't have the time to invest in helping you work on your mental issues. Find some sort of affordable therapy, okay? I don't care if it's creating a gun-range in an alley in the narrows, just do something. I know you can do this, but you need to change a few things before you have a chance at doing it successfully." He kisses me on the lips this time, just a quick peck, but it makes me crave something more, and he pulls away before I can act on that, and deepen the kiss. "I'm doing this for your own good, for your safety Casey. I can't see you hurt like that again."

So he walks out the door, and I sit back down, on the floor this time, criss-cross applesauce like a little kindergartner, feeling confused. Did I drive him away, or did he push himself away from me for the mysterious reasons that he refused to give me a clue about? I smirk to myself when I think about the desk job he claimed Gordon had offered me. Apparently he and Gordon, much as they had dinner together, weren't on the same page. Gordon had told me that if I could get in shape, pass the academy physicals for graduation and the exams, along with a psych evaluation, I could have a position on a team. So long as IA cleared me of course. That was the only one I was really worried about. A psych eval, well, I passed the military one when they were concerned about the jackasses' attempts to rape me (never told a soul about that one, except it had slipped out to Wellington one night so they sent a shrink in). I can pass the GCPD one just as easily. Cheap therapy though, I liked that idea. Maybe I'd go get back into shape by being bat-chick or something much more original. Bats? Really Mr. Wayne?

My stomach grumbles at me in response to my question, directed at the dead Mr. Wayne, answering with who cares, let's eat. I pad back to the kitchen and fetch the oreos, the mint refreshing me, but not enough to get rid of the bile in my mouth. I don't really understand what just happened, but I know I've been abandoned, once again, with false promises and sureties. Dear Robin, game on.


	4. Chapter 3

**AN: Still only own my OC's. Please note, I've only seen Nolan's movies and read a bit on the batman wiki and etc, so any problems with a temporary character I introduce as a plot device just let me know politely. I'm sure I'm going to piss someone off, but I don't really care all that much because I'm the author here. I wouldn't have updated until next weekend, but a sprained ankle has me laying around bored out of my mind so I had this done waaaay earlier than planned. **

Chapter Three-

I clutch the white diner mug in my hands, my nose drinking in the smell of my cup of tea as I watch George walk into the dinner. I'd read online that face to face meetings with people who'd been through what you'd gone through before helped, but this was my first attempt. He didn't know though that I was here lurking in the shadows of his booth in the back, where we'd always gone to get a drink after a particularly trying shift. I'd just figured that maybe he might come. It's six thirty in the morning, he's going to be getting off graveyard, dead tired, and wanting a bite of eat and a cup of coffee. I don't usually drink tea, but they didn't have my favorite blend in stock, and I hate the house blend here. George likes it, and he was my FTO, my field training officer, so this is where we went.

"Figured you might try to surprise me Casey," George says, ambling up, and sliding into the booth, his back to the door, making him uncomfortable. I nudge him gently under the table with my Glock and he nods at me, understanding, before I slide it back into my holster, letting him hear the click. "Well, that explains the oversized sweatshirt."

He's referring to the large Gotham University sweatshirt I'm sporting, that's really just the first thing I grabbed on my way out the door, when I gave up on sleeping and decided to come here to wait for George. Truth is, I've had five cups of their shit coffee here, and that's why I really switched to the black tea in front of me. I've been here most of the night. "I wasn't trying to surprise you, I just thought I should try to see people other than Blake." I pause, twirling the tag from the teabag off my mug and depositing it by the pile of creamers on the table. "Figured it might help me."

"What's going on Casey?" George looked at me, concern in his eyes, even though they were exhausted and bloodshot.

"You got pepper-sprayed on a call or training at the precinct?" I can pick up the tell-tale signs of the dye from the OC in his eyes.

"Some perp thought he could pepper-spray me. I didn't have my mask on because it'd fogged up and I'd thrown it off so I could see. Idiot move. I had to write a memo up of course."

"Duh you idiot." George was notorious for taking his mask off when he wasn't supposed to. I was surprised he hadn't been booted off the team, not that I ever told him that. "Blake and I had a major fight yesterday, he walked out, and basically told me that I'm fucked in the head. Says I need to get a shrink. I don't have any insurance because of damn internal affairs."

"Not to mention the people like Phillips who are stirring the hornets there up with false claims that you were whoring yourself out in those tunnels."

"I've heard." My voice is a monotone, and my mind wants to throw the mug of tea at someone, preferably someone who was accusing me. I blink my eyes rapidly and look up at the ceiling instead. "I'm not a whore George."

"I know Casey." He smiles at the waitress who walked up. "I'll take the usual hon."

"Coming right up," the blonde waitress said, her hair a rat's nest, but attempting to be neatly pulled back, owl eye make-up making me think she was probably some kind of prostitute or other street-girl before the changes brought by the end of Bane's occupation.

"IA hasn't talked to me yet." I let him know. "I can't sleep right, not without nightmares, so I don't sleep that often. Blake's right, the tunnels fucked with my head, but if I can't go back to work…"

"Before we could come back Casey," George looks at me, tired and pitiful, "we had to go back down there, we had to stay there for three hours, wearing a wire, no back-up, and find and subdue a perp who had volunteered to do it, with the promise that if he escaped he wouldn't have the counted against him. It was in groups of five. Gordon wasn't happy with it, but he agreed that he needed to know who could do it or not. You'll have to go down into those tunnels again Casey, and I know you barely can come out here in public."

"Who said that?" I wonder out loud, wondering if I even wanted to know the answer.

"Phillips. I think he's stalking you, judging from the things he's said offhand."

I look around the diner, paranoid by his remarks, and then laugh at myself. Phillips is probably off bragging about his exploits to some whore right now. "Let him. I'm not hiding anything."

"You've got a gun you shouldn't have," George points out, accepting his black coffee and slurping at it gratefully, as a plate of food is also set in front of him. "You going to eat Casey?"

"Have to watch the budget." I smile at him sadly. "Listen, you knew of a lot of free clinics when you were my FTO. Know any that might be willing to help me, maybe give me some physical therapy for my injuries?"

"Yeah," George salted and peppered is food liberally, making me debate if I should give him my usual lecture on being heart-healthy, then remembering my own oreo addiction and keeping my mouth firmly shut. "3427 West Dover in the Narrows. Real nice lady, hasn't been in Gotham a while. She just got back from doing some work in Africa. She mostly works with raped girls, but she might be able to help you, or refer you to someone who can help you. Now, finish your flavored water and get out of here before IA or Phillips catches you."

"Good to see you too George." I pulled out a twenty and left it on the table, hoping it'd cover my beverages. "Use the change of whatever's left to buy something other than your supplies for a heart-attack."

"Sounds like you're getting back to normal already Casey. Looking forward to hearing your voice on the radio."

I walk calmly out of the diner to the bus stop before breaking down, my breaths coming in gasps. "I can't do this." I whisper, "I can't."

An elderly lady sitting at the bus stop looks at me curiously, then smiles at me. "Where are you headed to dearie?" She reminds me a bit of Sophie when she was Grandma Sophie, in that Miyazaki film I watched once with a little girl who was a witness that I had to work with, before I was SWAT. I was building a rapport with the girl to help her get ready to testify. She'd nailed the testimony and we'd gotten the bastard who was selling her and other little girls off into the sex trade.

"Narrows. West Dover. When's the next bus coming?" I pretend to squint at the schedule. "I'm sorry ma'am, I forgot my contacts and my glasses broke." I hate myself for lying, but I don't trust the lady, because of the bottle sticking out of the brown paper sack she was trying to conceal behind her feet. Not to mention the smell coming from her breath and from said bottle.

"Buses don't go to the Narrows from here yet. You have to take the subway." She points to a nearby set of stairs going down and I gulp. Just what I don't want. "Sorry hon."

"No problems. I have a pass for the subway too," I lie, trying to not hyperventilate. I walk purposefully towards the stairs and step down, just enough to be out of sight, before sitting down on one of the stairs, rocking back and forth, trying to start breathing regularly again. I fish my phone out and start a text to Robin, then decide against it. If he wants to talk to me, he'll contact me. Thinking about him makes me realize that going down there, riding the Subway to the Narrows, and talking to whoever this doctor is will help me get better, help me prove Robin wrong.

I get up, wipe away the snot from crying with my sleeve and stride down the stairs, noting that the cameras are still not operational down here, so just vaulting over the turning things at the entry-way, heading to the track for the Narrows-bound train. My mind is racing, and I want to draw my gun, and I feel the walls closing around me, and I wonder, once again, if I'm going to be buried alive as my fate. This is going to be a long trip.

"Casey Ewart?" A friendly silver-haired woman stuck her head in the door of the tiny exam room and then walked in after I nodded, my face still deathly pale from taking the Subway. I shake her hand with my usual force, and then hold my breath, waiting. "I looked over your papers that you were willing to give us, and I think I can help you, without sending you somewhere else. I like taking on a different type of case every once in a while, and besides, you remind me a little of an old friend who died in the mess Gotham's had this past year."

"Thanks Dr. Thompkins," I smile at her, starting to feel a little more calm.

"Oh please, call me Leslie. Also, hon, I live near your apartment—it's odd to get an address but it helps. Maybe we can meet at yours or mine so that it's easier for you? You seem like it's a strain on you to be here."

"No…I had to ride the subway. It made me think of the tunnels." I look at her, sheepish. "I can't afford to get a car, and my old one was totaled, obviously, while I was down there."

"That's perfectly fine, and why don't we start there? It's pretty clear you've got post-traumatic stress disorder, and that we need to slowly expose you to things and have you talk through what you feel. I'm not a psychologist, but I can help you, since I had to serve as psychologist to that same friend I mentioned earlier. Stupid idiot."

"Alright…Leslie…" It feels weird to call a woman I barely know by her first name, but it makes me more comfortable to tell her my story. "So, how does this work? I just talk and you listen and then talk back to me about what you think is going on?"

"Pretty much, and I'm going to take a few notes so that I can figure out where to start with your exposure therapy. Taking the subway may not be what's best for you at this stage." Leslie pulled out a white steno pad and a pen from her lab coat and smiled at me, taking a seat in the chair meant for her, and rolling it closer. "You're my last patient before I close up to get some sleep. It's more important to be open at night for what I do mainly here."

"I understand." I shift around, the paper underneath me rustling and she shakes her head at me.

"Sit on the chair over there if you want. That exam table has got to not be the most comfortable thing you've ever been on." She laughs slightly.

"Thanks." I move positions carefully, then look back at her, making eye contact. "This is all you trying to build a rapport with me, right?"

"Correct, and I'm not going to try to swindle or hurt you Casey. I'm just here to help." She puts her pen down for a moment and reaches over and squeezes my hand. "I know that this is hard for you, but you can do this."

"I can?" I realize now that I've never really thought about whether or not I believe that I can ever be back to the way I was again. I'm skeptical, as the thoughts swirl in my head, and I close my eyes for a split second, and I'm met with the memory of that initial panicked feeling that I had when we were first sealed in the tunnels, trying desperately to get out.

"Yes, you can."

"I don't know if I trust you yet," I begin, "but I'm willing to give this a try. The subway. My entry point into the tunnels and thus the sewers for the hunt for Bane was a monorail terminal that was right by a subway entrance, basically almost the same thing. You know the one over on Westchester and Hanson? That one."

"That one," Leslie agreed. "I know it well. Just so you know, they actually didn't rebuild that one. Too heavily damaged."

"I know," I put chap-stick quickly on my chapped lips and then continued. "My team was one of the last to go down. We were SWAT, and not just GCPD SWAT, but MCU SWAT. We'd been going to go down sooner, but we were coming off a hard call and had taken quick nap and gotten some food on the way there, dropping hints that we were pissed about the sudden major training exercise the whole way. Helping the press team out discreetly and all that. We were all terrified—we'd heard Gordon's description and I'd done a little background research on the target. Not to mention the fact that when we learn area beat knowledge, those tunnels and sewer pipes just aren't on the list of things we need to know. We'd be going in blind." I hesitate. "We did go in blind."

"Do you want to talk about this more or schedule a new appointment?" Leslie inquired, after I had paused for a few minutes after that last statement. Mentally, I was reliving it, the last time we'd laughed and joked with Charlie, who'd gotten caught in the debris and who we'd tried to get out and hadn't been able to get to him, just hear his screams. "Casey?" She shakes my shoulder. "Come out of the memory you're having and talk to me, please?"

"One of our teammates, the funniest guy on the team, but a real good guy, always had your back and never let you down, Charlie Markel, he was the six man, even though we had our full ten people there, that's what we all called his position. So he was last down. He got trapped in the debris, just barely. We tried to get to him, even just a tiny hole so we could say goodbye and shoot him to end his pain, because somehow, we knew that whatever this was, we weren't getting out quickly. Our radios were dead, no signal down here in the tunnels, and we couldn't get to Charlie. Just could hear his screams for the hour and a half it took him to finally die."

"Screw professionalism," Leslie whispered under her breath, before rolling close and embracing me in a hug. "It's alright to cry Casey," she promised me, as I leaned on her shoulder and the tears that hadn't come when Charlie had died, probably due to the shock, finally came. "I know you see people die a lot in your line of work, but this is more traumatic because it's a teammate, and you couldn't do anything. I think maybe taking a visit down to the ruins before the final demolition in a week should be good for starters. What do you say to tomorrow morning, same time, I meet you in front of your building? I'll call you if I need to delay it because of a case."

"Alright. Sounds good." She lets me finish crying, squeezing me in a tight hug the whole time, and then hands me a tiny pamphlet.

"This focuses more on PTSD for rape and abuse victims, but the same basic principles apply. Do you have internet access?" I nod at her and watch as she pulls her pen back out and writes a web address down quickly on the back of the pamphlet. "Go here and take the profiler, and bring me the results, along with a print-out of the detailed explanation of what they say your results mean. It's a diagnostic tool that should help me figure out how to help get you back entirely on your feet." She hands me the brochure and I take it.

"Thanks. Look, I'd pay you something, but money is really tight right now…"

"Don't worry about it," Leslie said with a smile. "This is a non-profit. I don't expect everyone to pay, and I've got a lot of money of my own that I use only for paying for expenses."

"Is there anything I can do then to help? Provide security or anything?" I'm actually feeling more hopeful than I was even after talking on the phone with Gordon, so I'm fairly desperate to find a way to help this woman who'd helped me. "I know I'm not supposed to, but I have a gun that my boyfriend gave me, that I conceal carry, and I can pretend I'm a receptionist or something…."

Leslie looks at me, a sad smile on her face. "I know you want to help me Casey, because of what you see that I can be able to do for you, but the best thing you can do to help me is to do everything I tell you to do, and to believe in yourself again."

"I do believe in myself," I snip back, knowing, deep down, that she's right. I don't believe in myself as much as I did before all of this happened.

"Sure," Leslie said, starting to walk me out to the front door of the clinic, where she probably had to lock it up, the little non-descript alley-way side door that was really the front door to this little place. "That's as true as saying you didn't have a major argument with Blake last night."

"What? How'd you know that?"

"Damn," Leslie whispered under her breath, then spoke up. "He and I had a mutual friend, and when I came back to Gotham, I sought him out in order to find out a few details about how our mutual friend died."

"Why do I hear air quotes on the death thing?"

She laughs. "Blake came here all a mess last night, and if you hadn't come to me, I might have reached out to you just because I don't want to deal with that boy coming in here and scaring everyone off again."

It's my turn to laugh. "He can be oblivious to the problems he's causing. But still—what's with the air quotes?"

"Damn you're perceptive. Don't tell Blake, but I saw his and my mutual friend after the death Blake knows about. I swear that boy has nine lives."

She leaves me then at the door, and I trudge back through the streets of the Narrows, wary and on guard, but thinking about what Leslie said about me and about Robin. Whatever is going on with Robin, Leslie knows, and this mutual friend bullshit is definitely rooted in the mess somewhere.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter Four-

I slipped the shoes out of the box, pulling the tissue paper out of the toes and the cardboard out of the heels, before sliding the low heels onto my feet, standing up and testing them out, glad that my ankle wasn't hurting me today finally. With Leslie's help over the past couple of days I was making progress, and the new tiny little ankle brace she'd provided for me discreetly, I was feeling better. It wasn't some sort of overnight change, and my mind was still scaring me, when I wasn't so entrenched in it was scaring me, but I'd gotten up the nerve to schedule the meeting with IA. They'd called while I was at Leslie's that first time. Even though Leslie and I established that I really do want to go back to my job as a police officer, no matter where I am on the force, as long as I'm not chained to a desk, I'm terrified of walking back into the precinct, or even to the IA headquarters, and having a panic attack, revealing everything that happened.

"Hey Casey. I'm sorry I didn't call you back." Robin's voice comes from to the right, and I purposefully don't look up, even though I track him out of the corner of my eyes.

"Don't walk any closer. I'm armed."

"No you aren't," He whispered, coming and leaning against the aisle next to where I was. "You're buying shoes and wearing business attire. Giving up?"

"Nope. Gordon expedited my IA stuff after I talked to him." I slipped my feet back into my boots and picked up the box with the shoes. They fit well enough for a trip to the IA office and then I'll hopefully be able to return them if Ross hasn't changed their return possibility. "Oh wait, didn't you recommend that?" I get up and walk away, moving quickly and silently through the store, trying to lose him, like a friend who'd died in the charge down Main Street who'd worked undercover had taught me.

I reach the check-out line, mercifully line-free, and find him waiting for me, somehow having gotten faster than me at navigating stores when there weren't exigent circumstances to speed him up. "That's new," I comment, as I hand over the twenty dollars for the shoes and take the box and receipt from the bored cashier, waiting for Robin's response. Nothing happens, so I just sigh and turn to face him. "You have this whole big deal about things and walk out on me Robin, now you show up and expect me to let you know what's going on with me?"

"I'm ready to tell you what's going on." He looks me in the eyes, and I know he's telling the truth, and that he's trying to be the sweet, honest, hard-working beat-cop who proposed to me all those months ago. But in his eyes? I see the same haunted look that I see in my eyes, but I see a steely hardness that's overcome that horror that he's seen. Somehow he's morphed into someone new, moved on and taken whatever happened to him aboveground, while he was in hiding, fighting against Bane and helping us underground prisoners. Maybe something more has happened, but I can't deal with this right now

"Sorry babe," I leaned up and kissed his lips softly, lips closed, something that's resembling a first kiss, or, in this case, a cold goodbye. "But I need to do my own thing right now." I pressed the engagement ring into his hand, it feeling weird to be off my finger, but strangely good, like a weight was off my shoulders and I could walk with the old bounce in my step. "Take care Blake. Whatever you're doing."

I walk out the door, leaving him behind, and to where I'd parked my car, unlocking the car as quickly as I could, sliding in. I take a look out the rearview mirror as I leave the parking lot. Blake is sitting on the bench outside the Ross, holding something out in front of him that has a sparkle to it—my ring. Darling, life is difficult, so learn to move on. I don't want to have to leave you, but it's necessary so that I can do what I gotta do.

I dial Leslie as I merge onto the freeway that intersects through Gotham, part of a new road-system being assembled quickly by the National Guard. I don't like them getting in our way of finding a balance between the old and the new, but it's helpful when I'm running late. She picks up quickly.

"You're on your way there? How's your heart rate? What's going through your mind right now?" She doesn't say hello, she just starts asking questions. I can hear the fact that she's nervous about if I'm moving too quickly in her voice, and it pisses me off.

"Yeah. I just broke up with Blake. I ran into him and I just realized I needed to call it off." I spit it out quickly, knowing she'll be annoyed. She was telling me just this morning that Blake would be a vital part of my recovery most likely. "I feel better."

"Casey….what prompted this?" I can imagine Leslie, even though I've only known her three days, pouring herself a cup of coffee and sitting in her chair, picking up her steno pad and starting to jot notes to add to my file, which she kept safely somehow.

I think for a moment and then smirk at myself in the mirror as I double check that no wisps of hair have escaped my tight, academy regulation bun that I forced my hair into for the interview. It's gotten too long. As soon as I'm rehired and through any re-training, I'm cutting it back to its former barely shoulder length glory and going back to my half-French braid, half French twist sort of usual, utilitarian, non-plastered with hair goop hair. My mind is racing with panic, and I'm keeping myself calm singing mentally songs from the radio station I usually listen to that are stuck in my head.

"Casey?" Leslie's voice breaks through my reverie as I think about all the reasons why I'm scared, why I'm haunted, and how I don't know how stable I am.

"Yeah. I'm fine. I don't know." I change lanes quickly out of the fast lane that I'd merged over to, this time not anywhere near as carefully and barely make my exit, before realizing exactly what's driving me to push past all of his. "Some guy once said a ship in port is safe, but that's not why we have ships, or something like that. Staying with Blake was staying in port. I need to step out, lower my expectations to just getting a job on the force, and rock this bullshit with IA."

Leslie laughs. "I've known enough cops and I'm starting to know you pretty well Casey. Don't give me all this fake cheer over internal affairs. They want to serve you up on a silver platter so that you're out of the way of everyone who doesn't want to deal with you."

I pull up in front of the temporary home of internal affairs, and nod, then realize, stupidly, she can't see me. "I know. Listen, I'm here. I'll let you know at my appointment tomorrow." I hang up, and climb out of the car, taking my purse with me and shoving my phone in there, after hitting silent. There's one text from Blake, and I don't read it, I just hit ignore and open it so the notice won't be flashing, but I exit out of it before I can even see how long it is. I'll read it when I feel like it. I stride in purposefully and hand over the papers that they'd faxed to me via my super. "Casey Ewart, badge number 9519. Currently on medical leave and suspension pending investigation. I have a 1400 with Sergeant Chambers."

The receptionist nods at me, filing my papers away hopefully where they go. "I'll need to see your ID card ma'am."

I hand over my driver's license and she looks at me, annoyed. "GCPD hasn't reissued me a new ID card after mine was damaged beyond repair in the fight. Probably due to the investigation." I take a seat and wait to be called in, and look sympathetically at the other people waiting around. It's a different system than usual, but it's apparently working efficiently unless you're black-balled, which apparently Gordon had to stop me from "earning" that fate. It's time to do my best to get back to work, or else I'm going to actually have to start filling out the job applications Leslie had me canvas for with her yesterday. Ugh. I let my mind wander off, and I close my eyes for a moment, and let the images of the tunnels and the sewer come up on me, and even though it makes me terrified, makes me panic, I shove it aside and just relax.

I don't know how long it's been, because I've been forcing myself to wade through my head (probably a stupid idea considering I'm under a microscope right now and I'm in the enemy's camp), before Sergeant Chambers is standing in the doorway, calling "Ewart 9519" in a deep voice, that I try to read, and find a bit of hope for a friendly person when I shake his hand, and I realize that he was one of my instructors when I did a bit of extra training last year. I remember him being a nice guy, compared to some of the people at the academy, but people change. I should know. I just called off an engagement with the guy who, before all this started, was the guy of my dreams.

'

I leave the business attire crumpled on my floor where I'd pulled it off and pull on a pair of gym shorts and a tank-top over my underwear and bra, before going to the kitchen to sort through the mail I'd picked up. My mind reminds me that Leslie had told me to call her after I got out of the appointment, but I'm stubborn. I can do this on my own.

I plug my phone into the stereo using the adaptor I'd bought, even though my stereo system is a piece of crap. My insurance is still not giving me all the money they owe me, and I'm starting to fight for it, instead of lying back and going whatever, like so many people seem to do here in Gotham. People don't want to have to fight anymore, they don't want to have to fight for survival. The car was a result of me finally calling my auto insurance company back and just saying give me whatever. The little Scion FRS was nowhere close to a real replacement for my old classic Mustang, but at least it had been Blake who'd dealt with the guts of my baby and had sent it to the scrap yard, even filing my insurance claim for me. I still get a little emotional over that car.

There's insurance papers, there's bills, there's a letter from my mom, a mysterious letter from Europe, and a letter from MCU, along with the usual flyers, credit card offers, and the new issue of the tactical magazine I subscribed to on the recommendation of a friend from SWAT when I first became a beat officer. I open the letter from Europe first, curiosity killing the cat.

_To Officer Casey Ewart:_

_I hope to whatever deities are going to be most reliable that you're reinstated into GCPD. You've had an astonishing career, more so than your fiancé, and I hope that the idiots in power will see that. When you do, volunteer for graveyard. At midnight on your first night back, when you go to partner up, go to the top of MCU. Tell Gordon what you're doing. You're the new liaison Ms. Ewart, and I hope you understand the gravity of my request that you take this position. Tell Gordon an old friend sent you, and that this was all set up before I came back. He'll understand. Best of luck, and whatever you do, don't interfere with the new guy, or try to determine his identity. If they don't let you back on, it's okay. Send a letter to the return address on the envelope and someone will figure out a new solution and try to help you get a position somewhere of your choice. _

_With gratitude,_

The letter was weird, and it made me curious. The handwriting was male, slightly messy, but had a refined, cultured aspect to it that made me curious. The return address was in Italy, and was written with a decidedly female hand, as was the address. That handwriting was perfect, like fine calligraphy. The whole top of MCU in the middle of the night thing made me think of the Batman. God bless his soul.

Sergeant Chambers had cleared me from the IA investigation, but whether or not I was classified as fit to return to duty was another matter entirely. I wasn't even formally cleared yet. Chambers had just remembered me and had realized that the person that he knew from training was not the person talked about in the charges, and that it didn't match with my career record. He said that it was "highly likely that these accusations are false" and that I "should go see the psychologist attached to my old precinct in preparation for rehire."

Yeah, rehire. While I am still technically an officer with GCPD (no longer attached to MCU though because of the new regime), I'm still practically fired. Not even retired, but fired. I fume to myself, wanting to start throwing things because of the bullshit. I should call Leslie, I remind myself, as I pull out the ingredients I need to make orange chicken and check the thin chicken I left thawing in the sink. The benefit of all this shit was that I was actually learning to cook. The downside was that I don't have a job. From the folder Leslie had put them in, the job applications all glare at me. It had felt so damn humiliating to slink through the mall and the outlets, and even to bloody Wayne Enterprises to ask for job applications, with Leslie all but holding my hand like I was a child.

I pull out the cutting board and knife and start slicing the chicken into small pieces, so that it'll brown up more easily and then fry in the sauce nice and easily. I do it quickly, letting my anger pour out into each slice, my own type of therapy. I'm sick of feeling helpless, I'm sick of hearing sirens or gunshots and knowing that if I get involved, it would be as a civilian and obstruction charges would be more than likely in a lot of situations. I'm sick of having to spit out my feelings to other people because I can't afford the meds to take that could make it so I could deal with them on my own. I can play on a team, but I'm not on a team right now, I'm not watching anyone's back while they watch mine. I'm just watching my own back. I'm alone now.

It isn't until I have the chicken cooked and a serving poured over some rice and the rest stored for future meals, a few potstickers hurriedly fried up on a craving that I realize what isn't going on. I haven't had any full blown panic attacks today. Sure, my mind is still racing with fears, and I cleared my apartment thoroughly several times today, even over something just as simple as the kettle being left on too long when I was boiling water for making cupcakes, to contribute to my neighbor's daughter's bake-sale. The look on her face when I'd rang the bell and held out the freshly made cupcakes had made me remember the look on people's face when I saved lives and took names. It had been something I'd made an effort to do for people even when I was working overtime and barely had the energy to remember to pay my bills.

I heave a sigh as I unplug my phone from the dinky stereo and pause the music, scrolling through my contacts until I see Leslie's name, trying not to screw my face up into tears when I see Blake listed as Robin, when I accidentally overshoot Leslie's name trying to use the little shortcut thing. It may be for the best that I broke up with him, but it hurts.

"Hello?"

"Hey Leslie. It's Casey, I'm sorry if it's a bad time…."

"Casey! How'd it go at internal affairs?" Her voice is cheery, and I can tell she's eating something at the same time, maybe even driving, because the reception is just a bit hairy.

"It went fine. That much is looking good." I take a deep breath. "I did something without telling you—I broke up with Blake." I pause a moment for her answer, and when there is none, I continue. "I miss him, and I doubt I'll hear anything from him, but I feel better for doing this."

"He already called me and told me, I should be upfront about that. I may or may not have let him know you were seeing me when he asked." I can hear the chagrin in her voice, so I know she regrets having done her bit of taking, and I wish I could reassure her in person, because that's what I've actually been trained to do.

"It's okay Leslie. It really is okay. Now he'll know that I'm okay, or at least going to be." I hear honking, confirming my suspicion that she really is driving, probably on her way to the clinic. "Listen, I'll let you go. Traffic can be a bitch, can't it?"

She laughs. "It can. I'll call you later if there's some down time in the clinic."

"Don't worry about it. I got some more insurance money besides the car. I went to the clinic you recommended and got some sleeping pill shit. I hate using the stuff, but I'm tired."

"Good for you, I'll see you tomorrow morning. Set an alarm hon," The line goes dead after that last comment, and I set the phone down, taking a bite of my orange chicken and closing my eyes. I think that I can stand my own cooking for now. It's actually quite good.

My phone rings again a few bites and a potsticker later, and I pick it up, not even bothering to look at the number, feeling a bit risky, comfortable. "Ewart."

"I got the report from IA. I had them your case." Gordon's voice is tired, like usual, but it's cheerful. "I got permission to hire you on with a probationary status."

"That's surprisingly quick."

"You'd start back after several psychological evaluations first and so you wouldn't start until the end of July, early August at the latest." Gordon sounds apologetic, and I realize this is the second apologetic person I'm dealing with in a short span. I'm not used to dealing with so many people this often. It's astounding how much a little progress towards something I'm not sure how I'll cope with going back to helps me.

"That's fine. Would I get my healthcare back? There's a few minor things I need to take care of." I try not to sound too much like a beggar, but I can't help it. I need the meds for helping with the panic attack stuff. I just, obviously, don't want to admit that I want the healthcare in order to go on medications for panic attacks.

"I'll do my best Casey, it'll be good to have you back. They may ask you to be a beat officer during the probie period. I'm shifting back to just running MCU, so I'm not in the loop as much as I could be." I hear someone calling for him in the background and I realize he's still at the precinct, just with his office door actually shut for once.

"It'll be good to be back." I promise him. "Now, respectfully sir, get to work. I can't yet, but I will as soon as I can." I feel positive for once that going back on the force is going to be helpful and conducive to me getting better. Maybe. I close my eyes, trying to envision being back in a patrol car, in full uniform, with a full duty belt, and instead I'm met with a memory of the last time I'd suited up, remembering the faces that it was the last time I ever saw them.

I eat my food in peace after the call ends, with only a few pleasantries shared between Gordon and me, that I can't remember, because my mind is a roll call for the dead, each and every one of them. I've found why I'm not sure if I'm going to go back and find it what I really am looking afterwards. Because I'm not sure if I can live up to those memories, not the way I am now.

**AN: I still don't have the rights to anything but my original character(s). Obviously Casey is going through what appears to be progress, but well...we'll see. **

**To anyone who cares about update schedules: I'm trying to get an update out every weekend, but that's not going to happen for April. I'll update when I can, but , well, it'll be sketchy. **


	6. Chapter 5

**AN: Short, not my best, but it's just more random filler, that is actually semi important to a degree, but it's still an update, that I didn't plan on having, so it's a plus in my mind. I only own my original characters and plot. Reviews are chocolate, virgin margaritas or pina coladas, and better than an email for a job interview, because reviews don't have the iffy chance of wasting one's time answering questions for no reason except a rejection email that's stupid and spells your name wrong. **

Chapter 5-

I looked blearily at the clock on my nightstand as I fumbled in the dark for my charging, and ringing phone. I think the clock said something like three am. I wasn't entirely sure. At least my first test of the sleeping pill has discovered that I can wake up when my phone rings. It's on the last ring though by the time I manage to disconnect it one handed from the charger and pick up.

"Ewart," I croak into the phone, hoping I'm holding it the right way and not being a sodding idiot to whoever this is.

"Casey! Finally! This is like the fifth time in a row that I've called you!" It was a familiar voice, a woman's voice, and it's frantic, something I can remember hearing time and time again as I was patched into calls from dispatch when…now I remember.

"Emma! Take a deep breath. I'm on sleeping meds, sorry hon." I guess I was wrong about being able to hear my phone easily. If the imperial march that's default for everyone I haven't yet found the contact info for can go off four times before I can hear it and drag myself awake…. "What's going on?"

"It's Roger. Look, I know you had gone to all that trouble to keep me away from him, but when everything happened—he found me Casey, he found me. I put up with it throughout the mess with Bane, because I realized that the military was fucking useless to get us out because of the bomb and they were sitting on their hands and all that. They could've found a way, you know that right?"

"I know. What's going on RIGHT NOW?" I don't actually yell, just enunciate a little, letting her know that what's past can wait and what's current needs to come out.

"I tried to leave when everything got better. I succeeded for a little bit. He found me about a month ago, and I've been trying to survive since then, but he just keeps getting worse. It's worse than before now, and I swear, I think he's going to come upstairs any moment now and kill me. I'm on the roof of my apartment building and oh God Casey!"

I get up, reaching for the Glock, knowing that I'm going to have to go get her and find a way to get her completely out of Gotham. "Emma, can you hide in the upper storage area?" I don't know if the bastard is still in the same neighborhood he used to be in, but that'd be nice.

"No, he moved into the heart of the Narrows, so that it'd be harder if I tried to get the police to come around." She's crying, and I know I need to move fast. Emma was someone I met on a call, a voice that I had first heard when her husband had pointed a gun at her. Unfortunately, the charges had been dropped because Emma had been threatened by the husband's mob connections. I'd helped her get out, helped her get a divorce, and now she was back with him, by force.

"Address?"

"I'm not sure, look can't you triangulate or something?"

"One, that takes too fricking long. Two, I'm not back on the force yet due to some problems. Three, I'm going to try to make this as quiet and stealthy as possible. It's too bad Batman is dead."

"I have a theory on that…" Emma trails off. "Look, I can barely make out the bridge towers, and I think I can see the old café you took me to that first night…."

"No time for theories. Hon, see if you can find out a more exact location, keep your phone on. I have an inkling of an idea about what I can do. I'm on my way." I'm saying this balancing my phone on my shoulder so I can still hear her while forcing myself to be more dexterous slipping into an athletic bra and then throwing a black sweater on, carefully, so that I can listen to her rambling on, panicking to me. "..Emma..," I cut in, as I slide into a pair of skinny jeans and zip up the side of a pair of boots that I'd bought on sale at the BX back on one of the few outings I'd gotten from the hospital before I was formerly discharged and brought back here. "Take a deep breath. See if you can take the fire escape over to one of the other buildings, but don't do it if you don't think you can. I'm coming for you."

"Just hurry Casey, please." Her voice is desperate, lauding me to hurry faster as I throw on a tan trench coat I'd gotten from Goodwill that some rich bitch had abandoned and that had ended up there. It was worth close to five thousand, because it was a name brand, Erdem Leta, or so the tag claims. I just loved the uniqueness of it. It wasn't black, but it covered the Blackhawk holster I'd thrown my gun into on my belt. I wasn't in the mood to take the time to conceal carry and avoid printing.

"I will Emma. I need to call some people to pull some strings though, okay? I'll call you back when I get close."

"Alright. I can't get off the roof; the distance…it's too far." She seems more panicked, and I take a deep breath, closing my eyes for a moment as I lock my little flat up, before turning to race for the stairwell.

"Alright, is there a utility storage place up there? Somewhere you can hunker down where you can see anyone coming up?" I know Roger, I know people like him. He'll be on his way, probably as soon as he can either get another beer or two down his gullet, or get some cronies.

"I think so." I can hear what sounds like gravel on a roof near a work zone, and I realize that I know exactly the place she's talking about, I just want confirmation.

"Keep your phone on. I know where you are."

"You're the best Casey." She hangs up after that, and I know she's clutching onto it tightly, like it's the last bit of lifeline in a sea of swarming demons. I feel like I've betrayed her, and I know that what happens tonight is going to determine the fate of whether or not I'm actually going to be able to sign the papers, go through the motions, and take my life back from the abyss, the darkness that Bane thrust us into.

I dial George, wondering if he's on duty, realizing that, because I don't know what the fuck Blake has gotten into lately, I can't call him first. I get George's answering machine, and I take a shaky breath as he chirps out to leave a message going through the formal shit because it's his work number and his personal line all in one bundle of cost-saving bachelor efficiency. "George, it's me, Ewart. Emma Greene is in a bind again. I'm bailing her out. I've got the article Blake gave me still, and I'm en-route in my car. She's probably at the top of the apartment building at the corner of Shithole and Hellhouse Boulevards, to use slang. Deep in the narrows. If you can…back-up is good. It's the same asshole perp and his crew." I hang up, as I reach my parking slot and dive into the driver's seat, barely taking time to buckle up as I start the car and slam it into gear, before leaving rubber behind. Sorry parking garage people. Life or death, career or not issues here.

I sync my phone into the car Bluetooth one-handed as I screech through a red light, not caring that the camera probably caught me and sent me a hefty bill. I'm going to take Emma to the station after I take her to the hospital (if she needs to go, which is probably, unfortunately true) and I can clear things up then. "Call Blake," I order the car, as I push the gas pedal down as far as I can get it to go, complaining as the needle doesn't climb fast enough, the engine loving being let loose, as I swerve among the cars. I'm glad I didn't put the license plates on the car yet, because that would be a bitch, especially if Roger happens to see me, even though I'm not bringing the car close enough.

It rings and rings, and I'm scared Blake isn't going to answer. When he does, the reception is damn good, but there's water in the background, almost like a waterfall, and I wonder where the fuck he is. Isn't he supposed to be working?

"Casey, to what do I owe the pleasure of my ex calling me at three in the morning?"

"It's Emma. You know, the woman I helped out at that one call…."

"Yeah, I know." Blake had been the first responder on that one, for once. "She's up shit's creek again?"

"Yeah, and she doesn't even one hundred percent know where she is, so I'm speeding blind here."

"What's her number?"

I rattle it off as I swing onto a side street I know will cut over to the least likely to be patrolled Narrows access point, at least from before, and listen to a bit of frenzied typing on Blake's end. "How's that going to help? I'm pretty sure that she's at the top of one of the buildings at Shithouse and Hellhole."

"Casey…wait until I can get there, or call George."

"Already did, and I can't."

He swears under his breath and I smirk. "Gotta go darling," I purr. "People to save, asses to kick, the usual. It's Casey night apparently."

"She's at the top of the building on the North side, south east corner facing south west towards the roof access. Don't ask."

"Fuck you," I respond, cancelling the call and speeding up even faster, still going into a situation blind, but I know where she is, and I know, according to a little fieldtrip recently, that the building next door is a tiny bit higher. With a bit of interesting tactics, I can make it work. "Call Leslie Clinic," I tell my little Scion again and smile happily as I see it actually make the call.

"Hello?" Leslie picks up on the fourth ring, and I grimace, having hoped she'd let it go to voicemail.

"Hey, I'm doing something potentially idiotic, so if you don't hear from me, I'm probably bathing in Bengay, and I'll be fine. If Gordon calls and yells at you about my psychological state of mind, don't get a flower freakazoid over my tombstone."

"Casey?"

"I'm helping out a friend and it's somewhat of a hot extraction."

"I swear…if I'd only met you sooner…" She mutters to herself, then clears her throat. " Alright, take care. If you need medical help, for you or for your friend, call again and I'll clear the place and let you in."

"Thanks a mill Leslie." I reach over and hit the hang up button and focus entirely on driving. I should and could probably call Gordon, but I don't want to be a thorn in his side. Not yet.

I reach the alleyway where I planned to park in a record of fifteen minutes, and I haven't even brushed up on my driver's training recently, which makes a few skids I had a bit hairy, but to me, because I had failed Emma once already, this was not a normal code 3 friend in need kind of situation. I jump for the ladder to the fire escape stairs and race up, gun drawn, hoping I didn't need to pull out my dl and scream GCPD, hoping they didn't look too closely. I dial Emma, balancing my phone again, realizing I need to get some sort of hands free set soon. "I'm on my way. I'll be coming from the slightly higher building behind you."

"Hurry…oh God!" She screams and I hear Roger's voice cursing, both in my ear, and echoing through the night. And no one called GCPD? Oh wait. Narrows. Typical. The Dent Act is old news now, no longer truly valid, because of a speech Gordon had given, truly given, in response to his words that Gordon had written out and Bane had read out in front of Blackgate Prison. I hang up, shoving the phone in my back pocket, and run faster, legs burning, Adenosine what's it working overtime.

I take the safety off and chamber a round, wishing I'd thought a head and chambered a round and then replaced it in the clip. I haven't spent any time on a range recently. What happened when I got onto the roof, leaping down the seven feet to confront Roger, putting myself in front of Emma was like slow-motion, the revolver pointing at me, the bullet travelling towards me, my gun firing, too late, and being thrown out of the way by a dark figure, the bullet hitting the figure instead, and my bullet finding a home in Roger's skull, as I stagger up, pointing my gun at Roger's two cohorts, who listen and drop the weapons, going down on their knees. Helpfully, there are zip-ties on the dark figure's belt, and I help myself to them, noticing that whoever they were, they were in some cool armor. A la Batman, if you ask me.

"Thanks, but I had it." I tell the figure, a premonition shaking me that this was only the first of many meetings with this man.

"Sure. Take care." The voice is low, a man's voice, not gravelly like Batman's, but just neutral, the John Doe of voices. Emma's sobbing, freaking out, and I zip tie the bastard's up, taking all the guns with me, before helping Emma to get up onto the building I came from, before using a utility box to boost myself up with a rather flying leap, ignoring armor man.

"Come on Emma, it's okay. You're safe now and he's never coming back." I dial George, to let him know I'm okay and that there's two perps and a corpse. This may have not gone smoothly, but I passed the test I set up for myself, I realize. I'm going to come back, even if it's just as a beat officer.


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter Six-

I look at Gordon wearily, with an apologetic smile as I force myself to stand up from the hospital waiting room chair where I wait for news of how badly Emma is injured. There were fractures, but nothing compound, and some potential internal bleeding that they took a CAT scan to see if they could find anything out. She was just coming back from the tests and getting the bones they could set for sue set. "Sir."

"Sit down Ewart, you look ready to keel over."

"Things got weird out there sir," I let him know honestly. "Do you have any clue who the Batman wannabe is?"

"No, we've never had any dealings with him before. I'm glad he showed up when he did. You need to be a bit more careful Ewart." He gives me a tired half smile. "A few of your old teammates found out about the situation and wanted to come check on you, but there was a situation at Ponyo, so they had to get going."

I smile and look down at my phone, where a rather amusing text from George had just shown up. "It's cool. I should probably call Blake and tell him I'm alive. I texted him, but no response."

Gordon gave me a sad smile. "He was a good officer. Sorry to lose him, but his temper was running high and I think he saw too much of the bureaucratic shit fest that the higher echelon has to put up with in the law enforcement community." I nod, and he hands me the paperwork for GCPD, and a pen, from his jacket pocket. "Here, something to bide the time, along with the report forms for filing a statement for both you and your friend."

"Who called you?"

"Blake." He turns and leaves, without a real goodbye, as his phone goes off, and the frown on his face deepens as he checks who it is. "Fuck," I hear, whispered underneath his breath as he pushes out the doors of the hospital and I smirk to myself as I bend over the paperwork, before realizing. Blake is the one who called, said I'd definitely be taking Emma in to the hospital, not Leslie's clinic, because Leslie didn't have a CAT. It's a startling thought process my mind wends down, quickly, efficiently, something similar to all those times, times that still continue, especially after needed my ass saved, on whether or not I'm really good enough.

As I write down what happened as I answered Emma's call and raced to her aid, a bit stupidly, ending up needing help from the wannabe, my mind races through ideas of how the hell Blake might have known. He had to have been there, to have known something. What were the sounds I heard in the background when I did call him?

I push it aside as I start filling out the information to report the actual shooting. I aid the details of the Batman wannabe, as far as I know, and the ideas come inkling back into my head like a disease that I can't shake, as the information that I'm entering down to describe the dark figure was eerily reminiscent of my fucking ex-boyfriend, who had somehow known what was going on. I gather the paperwork together from the tiny magazine table I was using as a work area, and smile at the nurse on duty at the desk. "I've got to make a call," I let her know, "and it won't be quick if I can help it."

The woman has the decency to nod that she's heard at least, unlike the nurse who was on shift when I first came in. "I'll come get you if you'll go out into the café area when your friend is back."

"That'd be wonderful." Ever since the Joker blew up Gotham General, things have been different. I don't quite know how to put it, but I suppose everyone at the hospitals in Gotham are just more aware of what's going on. I go to the edge of the café area, where I can stand looking out over the streets of Gotham from the third floor here, a limited view, but a view nonetheless. It's distracting, to watch all the different scenes playing out on the street, the police cars, the ambulances, and the people coming in normally or just passing by on the street. I watch, distracted, as a man carefully helps his pregnant, heavily breathing wife, and I recognize, even from up here, that it's time, and the husband is crazed with fear and excitement. I saw wife because of the glint from her finger of a ring, and then there is the fact that I recognize them as my downstairs neighbors from my old house. I'm glad to see that they made it out alive. After they disappear inside the hospital, I just sit there for a while, wondering. Am I ever going to experience those feelings? Am I ever going to have a husband as loving and devoted as Rusty is to Jane? It's been twenty minutes since I went to make the call by the time that I actually fish my phone out of my pocket and start to scroll through my contacts to Blake's number.

I wait for him to pick up, and he doesn't, it just goes to voice mail. Five times. Then I give up and turn around, trudging back to the waiting room and sitting down in my same chair. There's no one new, and the nurse from the desk has vanished. Normally I would think none of it, but I know the kind of people that Roger had associated with, and I carefully, and as quietly as I can, slide the safety off on my Glock, hoping that she just had to go assist someone. But just like I said, things changed since Gotham General exploded. When people vanish who said they'd be somewhere, or implied they would be, you sit up straighter, and look around more often, more alert.

It brings back memories of walking into the tunnels, my AR on its sling, clutched in my gloved hands, as I went through my mantra that we train hard as hell, because we're Gotham PD MCU, my standard issue Glock in its tactical holster on my thigh, all the extra mags for both guns and the OC and the zip-ties and knife and back-up snubbie and...

My phone rings, busting me out of the reverie, as I relieve the breathing exercises we'd done as we'd waited our turns, the last gear checks, the alertness we'd had as we'd entered, last and proud. This is not a drill.

No. That wasn't a drill, and it wasn't a well-planned out mass raid like our superiors claimed it was. It was a CF. One massive, giant, massacre of a CF. Wasn't. It's gone, over, done.

"Ewart?"

"Casey? You called? There was a problem with one of the boys and I had to deal with it. I saw your missed calls. Did Gordon get in touch? Leslie called me for news, and so I presumed you were at the hospital." Blake's story seems a bit forced, a bit much on the information all at once, but I don't say anything, because Leslie had sent me a few worried texts that I'd ignored as I'd fought with my memories, my PTSD as its diagnosed, apparently. I mean, I had texted him.

"You get my text too?"

"'Okay. Emma not as but good.'" He quotes my text in a voice that's bland, but reminds me of that evil computer from the computer game a friend had had me try years ago, when it first came out. "Very helpful. I was worried."

"Right. What was up with the waterfall thing?"

"Oh," He chuckles softly, lightly, and I feel a quick tightening in my chest that I release with a memory of that last argument, and the way it felt when I'd dumped him, broken off the engagement. Because he didn't believe in me. "One of the kids has trouble sleeping and the waterfall noise reminds him of his old house, before his mother died and his dad turned to alcohol for some reason. He keeps it up loud."

"Got it." I make a mental note to discreetly find out if there's any truth to that, or if it's the utter bullshit I think it is. "Anyways, I was just calling to say hey and figure out how you'd known where to send Gordon when you called him."

"Alright..." He seems reluctant, but he ends the call with a quick and nebulous parting sentiment that I don't notice as I spot the self-same desk nurse reentering the area and smiling at me. I pocket my phone and re-gather up my papers.

"Emma?" I ask, not quite ready to flick the safety back on, since the nurse seems perturbed about something.

"Rushing her to emergency surgery for some internal bleeding we found that's a lot worse than we thought. She'll be in ICU for a while if she pulls through. I'm sorry." She hands me a pass to get into the waiting room for surgeries going to ICU and I take it, before sprinting through the halls to get to my next destination. I can't imagine how I'll handle it if Emma pulls through. What the fuck is even so wrong with her? I assessed her. She wasn't that unstable.

"What happened?" I ask, wanting more information, as I approach the new desk nurse, this time a male who looked like, unfortunately, he was just an intern, which riled me.

"Who are you?"

"GCPD." I snap, even though it's definitely not entirely true. They never exactly told me I'm off the force, they just did their best to force me into an extremely early retirement of sorts, to be nice, which isn't what I want to do. Not when I'm like this. Not when I'm fighting my memories, my hatred of hospitals, and worrying that I'm not good enough to do my job if something horrible happens to Emma. "Emma Knowles. I assessed her, there was no sign of this traumatic internal bleeding."

The guy makes a chagrined look. "There was minor internal bleeding when she was brought in. Not this bad. She tried to get up and fell, causing one of her broken ribs to spike into several of her organs. I know that's not the technical way to put it, but it makes a bit more sense than spewing medical jargon all over the place."

I give the guy a glare. "So it's the hospital's fucking fault then."

He nods, and hands me a sign in sheet so that they'll know I'm here, and I scrawl my cell number by my name before giving it back.

"I have an appointment to get to. I'll be back in two hours. If something happens, call me." Emma may be someone I befriended, but I have to get out of here, I have to walk around somewhere where I can breathe at least some minutely fresh air. "If anyone from GCPD comes for the paperwork, let them know she's in ICU and that I stepped out. I'll stay close."

There's a park across the street from the back of the hospital, and I head there, not at the quick pace I've been moving ever since I woke up, but at a more sedate pace, blending in with the people walking normally on the streets. I stop at a small coffee stand on the street corner and get a hot chocolate, before crossing over and into the park, going to the bench I always considered my bench, ever since I was a teenager, and just sitting there.

I realize now that, when in the hospital bed the solitude was murdering me, because I was used to the crowded huddled masses of my fellow officers all around me, now the solitude is what I crave, even though I want to feel like I belong somewhere, because right now I don't. I'm entrenched in my thoughts, fighting a war within myself, watching as a young woman gets proposed to at a god-awful early hour as she comes off her graveyard shift at the hospital by a boyfriend waiting with her favorite food and a drink from the coffee stand I want to. He was behind me in line, so I know that it's a caramel macchiato with soy milk, light whip, extra shot of espresso and three extra pumps of caramel. I also know that he's a regular, and that the girl is bound to be disappointed because the barista at the stand was passed a small packet of drugs by the proposing boyfriend. At least, I hope the young doctor is going to be disappointed, because I'm sick of watching the corruption never be able to become fully checked in Gotham, a city that's name is synonymous with trouble, even with all the different acts that have gone on. I could've called in the drug deal, but I didn't, because I'm tired. I want to go home and sleep, but I won't because I don't want to screw up my sleep patterns.

What's that old phrase? So give me your huddle masses? Well, Gotham has enough huddled masses, as the recovery effort fights on, not as visible in the more "important" areas. I'd like to point out with disgust that the Palisades were out of Bane's jurisdiction. Fuck them rich bastards. As in con them, take all their money, let them rot. I've had too many bad experiences with pulling them over or dealing with them as witnesses.

I veer my mind back on course, to my thoughts on whether or not to sign that last paper and then walk it in to the precinct I'd be working out of, 45th, a good fifteen to twenty from my flat, but not bad, considering it's got a decent rep.

I make up my mind just before they page me, two hours later, having sat there as the sun starts to warm up the park around me, the metal slowly becoming warmer and warmer, and less comfortable. It's still early and it's nearing eighty degrees. It's going to be a scorcher, and it's only June.

Emma didn't make it. The decision reaffirms everything I had come to realize about myself. I'm broken, and there's no way for me to fix it. I walk the paperwork for the incident into GCPD, along with a letter stating my intentions to, within the next month, send in my paperwork for medial retirement. I tell Gordon in a sticky-note I leave on his desk, in the piles of paperwork.

_I'm sorry. I can't. Not anymore. Not like this. I've been hiding it, but I've been messed up in the head since the first blasts went off. _

But for some reason, I don't follow the instructions in the mysterious letter, a sixth sense telling me that just maybe, things weren't quite over yet.

**AN: I only own my OC's and the plot ideas.**

**This was going to be posted this morning, but I saw the news about the bombing in Boston, and I'd feel wrong if I were to post my original chapter, so I rewrote the back half quickly, because I'm behind on my schedule for this (every Sunday update). I'm sorry for the long OC, but I'm a bit shaken up. I know people with relatives and friends in Boston, so it's been crazy ever since I found out, checking to make sure everyone's alright and that no one I know has been directly affected. **

**My heart goes out to Boston-to those who were there, to the families and friends, to the first responders, to the hospital staff, to EVERYONE. What happened is an atrocity. **


	8. Chapter 7

JULY

Chapter Seven:

"So wait, your Fiat survived, you sold it because you finally decided you didn't want a glorified smart car, now you ruined a brand new Scion that you got with insurance money from the townhouse your parents owned, and now you're just riding the bus around?" George looked at me curiously across the table of the diner. "Did you find a job or are you just staying up all night now?"  
"I'm working nights at the Wayne Enterprises building. They're in the process of moving operations back here from their temporary move out to New York so they could rebuild, figure out what's next. I think Lucius Fox is running things. I didn't follow the Bruce Wayne shit-fest." I pick at my omelet and give him a wry smile. "It's a living."

"Security?" He looks hopeful, damn him. It makes me wish that I could tell him that, but I'm not going to lie. Not when I still haven't formally left GCPD yet. Gordon is being an arse and refusing to put my papers in to process through the final stage, and since he hasn't formally stepped down as commissioner yet, he has the power to do that.

"No," I'm actually a bit regretful. "I'm a night clerk for archives." I make it sound like I love my job, but it's tedious. Most of archives was demolished in the mess, so we're having to go back and see what we can do. It's like a giant investigation."

George finds a reason to smile then. He's caught me. Even now, as I battle with memories and emotions every day as I take the bus in to work, as I fight with myself on whether or not resigning was even a good idea, George sees that I still look for connections to my old life. It's been a month since Emma died. Every day I regret not getting there faster, not having a better plan, or even any plan really. Always have a plan, how many times did instructors, FTOS, colleagues mention that? What hurt the most was that since that night, I hadn't heard a word from Blake. Even though it had felt good to be free from one stress at the time, breaking up with my one anchor was a horrible decision. So I frown while George smiles.

"Casey?" George reaches across and grabs my wrist, holding tightly. "Are you okay?" The concern in his eyes is palpable, a sudden change in the environment.

I shake my head, not as a response, but as a way to clear my head, to try to find a way to make sense of everything in my head. It's getting better, but I'm tired. Just so tired. It's already broiling out, and I'm in business attire still; meeting George hadn't been planned. He'd just stopped me before I'd gotten on the bus, told me I needed to come to breakfast, catch up. I've been avoiding everyone since Emma died. I'd even changed my phone number.

"I'm okay George. I'm just confused." I pull my hand away and shrug. "Blake been around to visit anyone?"

"Once, just to tell Justine where to send his checks to. Gordon apparently is allowing him his retirement even though he's nowhere near his full thirty years." He pauses, realizing that I'm trying to retire, and neither am I anywhere close to my thirty years. It doesn't hurt though, it reminds me of the letter I hadn't done anything about, ignoring the instructions. It reminds me of the intrigue. "He's apparently living out at the orphanage full-time coaching a baseball team."

"Baseball team?" I can't help but imagine my ex-fiancé coaching the kids in baseball, having fun. I remembered a pick-up game we played once with a bunch of other officers when we were working undercover at a function, versus the undercover state officers. Of course, at the time, we didn't know. It made for a great laugh when we all found out.

He slides a ticket across the table and gives me a meaningful look. "I'll pick you up at three. Game is at four. It's a fundraiser. Go home, get some sleep, I'll bring you a couple 5 hour energy things to down."

"Do I have a choice?" I want to see him, but today? Without any further ado?

"I could give you a choice, but I know you'll take the dunderhead route Casey. You need to figure out what you want and quit waffling around. Gordon is holding your spot for another month. He's even considering just putting you back on the team, since Phillips is getting way too many no-confidence votes lately."

I snicker. "About time. What took you bastards so long?"

He smirks and offers a high-five, which I accept, before standing up and pulling him up into a bear hug. "I need to come back, don't I George?"

"About time. What fucking took you so long?" We laugh, and that's that. One friendship finally completely mended. Now to survive seeing my ex.

I sit on the bleacher waiting, watching as George and Blake hugged, Blake awkwardly trying to avoid having George come in contact with his left shoulder, which, throughout the entire game, he was holding stiffly. He'd obviously hurt himself somehow, but at the same time, he was trying to hide it. I wanted to know what had happened, but I just…I just….

George was bringing Blake over, and even though I had been the one to call things off, I was still worried sick over him. He looked so tired, he looked so drained, but at the same time, there was a satisfaction to him that I had never seen when he was an officer. When he was an officer he was always complaining about how he could never help people the way he wanted to. He needed a way to put those feelings to good use, and here he was, doing something.

"Hey." I stand up, automatically starting to go into a defensive ready position, not realizing it until Blake reached out and took my left hand down from in front of my fisted right hand.

"Casey. You can relax. I'm not going to make you do anything you don't want to. I just would like to talk to you once in a while. Your number is disconnected." He lets go of my hand, and I cross my arms, trying not to seem defensive, but still letting him know I'm on edge, sliding my feet into a more normal position.

"I changed it. I needed some changes. I still live in the same little flat, you could've stopped by."  
"I've been busy." He gestures towards the vans where the kids from the orphanage are congregated, eating ice cream that had been provided by GCPD's kids activity program as a goodwill gesture. I didn't entirely understand that, but hey, it made the kids happy, even though they'd lost by two points.

"What happened to your shoulder?" I ask him, reaching out and putting a bit of pressure on his left shoulder, testing him. He winces, heavily, and a hiss of pain escapes him.

"I fell off a ladder."

George and I share a look. "Really Bird?" George chirped as best he could, making both Blake and I double-over with laughter, one of the first real moments I've had where I just let go of all my cares. It feels good.

"Really Curious." Blake uses George's nickname on, and I smirk wryly, realizing that camaraderie is what I'm missing the reason why I should go back. I shake my head quickly, realizing that I needed to stop that line of thought dead in its tracks before I could even consider further any rash decisions I might make. Instead, I focused on not losing myself in memories and feelings as I was close to Blake for the first time since I broke up with him. Mixed feelings, confusing feelings, and doubt.

I looked down at the cream skinny jeans I'd grabbed when I'd woken up late with ten minutes until George was supposed to be here and at the dirt patterns from the bleachers and the little bits of dust kicked up around me, and I realized that maybe I'd grabbed the rather feminine and definitely floral blouse to go with the jeans, along with a pair of heeled ankle boots, because I was still trying to change myself away from who I really am. No. More confusion, all at the same time.

Am I a new employee at Wayne Enterprises who is merely transcribing old documents back into a system, or repairing system files and creating new hard copies? Or am I a police officer who needs to get over it and get back in uniform, and realize that the best thing I can do to pay respect to the memories of my brothers and sisters in blue. Am I a woman who needs to be unattached, or am I a woman who needs to mend the bridges that the pain I went through burned so that I can be with ….

"Casey? Earth to Casey?" Blake waves a hand in front of my face, so close that he brushes against my nose for a brief moment. "Where are you?"

"Trying to figure out what's wrong with me right now. I want to say sorry for all the things I said last time I saw you." I reach out a hand, intending to shake his hand, when he pulls me in for a tight hug.

"You're forgiven. It was the truth. You needed space and I'd been a bastard," he promises, while still holding on to me. George is making gagging noises, but I'd bet my pay check for the year at Wayne Enterprises (which is sizeable, but shabby compared to a lot of other W.E. employees) that he was betting his entire paycheck that mending things with Blake might make it a better chance for me to come back on the force.

Sorry George. I'm not planning to start dating Blake again until I get to the bottom of what he's really up to. If he'd fallen off a ladder and injured his shoulder he would've gone to the hospital, and I would have found out, because he would have gone to Gotham General because of his health plan. He would have inevitably, due to the nature of his coverage for emergency visits, have crossed paths with a friend of mine, who helped me with my EMR and EMT certification stuff, who would have told me.

**AN: No changes in ownership rights. Short filler chapter here that may or may not be completely revised. **

**Also, to anyone reading this who has read my Bruce/OC story, I'm taking it down until I have time to edit it and deal with major contingency issues. I'll be taking it down by 1 May 2013. Sorry if this doesn't affect anyone reading this, but I'm just putting an announcement out there. **


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight-

So I said I wasn't going to start dating Blake again, I remind myself, as I roll over in the unfamiliar bed, to check the time, realizing that I probably should have called in sick or something before deciding to skip work. I notice a text from Hannah, from the cubicle next door saying she'd let them know I had stayed home with a migraine. I owe her a solid.

"Morning babe," Blake whispers in my ear, rolling over so he can hug me, careful not to incite anything until he knows whether or not I want something to be incited. I lean back against him, my neck arching past his mouth, and he doesn't resist his urge to kiss it delicately, where a hickey sits from last night.

"What happened?" I fib, pretending I don't know what happened, wanting to know what was going in his head in relation to our little hook-up. I hope he doesn't lose his job for having a woman stay the night. I did suggest going back to my place, but he'd said here would be okay, and he had to take the boys back personally.

"You've used that one on me before Casey." He pulls back and crawls out of bed, pulling a shirt on as quick as he could, but not before I could see that his shoulder was definitely thoroughly fucked up.

"Yeah, but the question still stands. I told you I'm not going to go back to dating you when I don't know what's going on with me, much less you too." I sit up, reaching for where I'd left my clothes and start dressing, noticing that he doesn't try to stop me. "This is what? Random sex? You didn't even know where you had your condoms darling."

"What? I've been busy, haven't had time to finish unpacking." He says, swallowing an ibuprofen and tenderly poking at his shoulder. "I still love you Casey, but since you broke up with me I've changed my lifestyle options and well, even if you wanted to start things over again…"

I cut him off by slamming the door shut on his bathroom, and I wonder whose room this used to be. It seems to have retained a lot of its original Wayne splendor, and from what I gathered from the barbeque last night, he has a rather elevated position here, courtesy of Wayne's will. I wash my face quickly, using a bar of Dial that was sitting, rather abandoned, by the sink, and take a few deep breaths. "There's a song that makes me think of us in a way. _For those doubts that swirl all around us; For those lives that tear at the seams; We know; We're not what we've seen; For this dance we'll move with each other; There ain't no other step than one foot; Right in front of the other_." I sing it softly, off-key, but in tune with whatever key I'd ended up in, I suppose. I'm not musical, I just, it came out better that way.

"One Republic? You've got some new tastes. I thought you were a classic rock aficionado."

"Waiting room radio." I shrug, deciding to reemerge and quit being so pissy. "Sorry to be cranky. I guess I'm not used to getting so much sleep."

"Neither am I, to be honest, but then, we've both seen things, done things…"

"You're still doing things. I'm running from things." I point out, sitting in a chair to put my shoes back on. "Look, I'll call a taxi, get out of your hair."

Blake looks at the time, no, Robin, then panics, starting to dress faster. "No. I'll take you, so long as you don't mind coming with me to the minor injuries clinic for Blaise to get his wrist looked at properly. Thanks for taking a look to confirm my diagnosis. I really hope Alfred decides to come stay on. He's EMT certified."

"Wayne's butler? Why the hell?"

Robin pulls on a blank face, as he grabs some keys from his desk drawer, along with his snubbie, which he straps into an ankle holster quickly and easily. "I'm not entirely sure baby. Listen though, we need to get going since it'll be ten by the time we get into town If Blaise is up to it, we'll get some food at the diner before the minor injuries clinic. If not, drive-thru."

"I root for drive-thru. I've been eating at the diner with George every morning ever since he found out I quit seeing Leslie after she argued with me a little too hard about me deciding to give up my attempts to get back to GCPD."

"Are you sure about that?" He asks, as he escorts me out of the room, and he and I tramp quickly down the stairs to the entryway. Blaise, the poor kid who fell out of a tree last night, playing hide and seek, is waiting, his wrapped arm held to him, looking positively miserable.

"Hey Mr. Blake, I was about to come bang on the door. I know you and Casey did a bang-up job patching me up so we wouldn't have to drive into town in the dark, but I sort of tried to use my arm this morning when I was getting dressed and it didn't go so well."

"That's okay kiddo," Robin wraps an arm around his shoulder, since Blaise is twelve, and can't exactly be carried. "Did you get breakfast?"

"I didn't want oatmeal sir. It's an oatmeal day."

"Right. Good choice." I grin at the boy, hoping I can do something to help. "How's hash-browns and French toast sticks sound?"

Blaise perks up and nods. "Yes please ma'am."

"Don't ma'am me. Name's Casey. I'm not an officer anymore, for now."

"For now?" Robin gives me a happy look. "Come on Blaise. While we drive to town let's see if we can convince one of Gotham's finest of the finest to go retract her request for a medical retirement."

I get back to my apartment late that night. Blaise had insisted that I stay until bedtime, because he liked me. I was even offered a job, but I told them I'd had to think about it. I do still have, as far as I know, my job at Wayne Enterprises. My head was racing with memories, memories that had come while I was riding home in the taxi from the orphanage. I cleared the apartment mechanically, room by room, the Glock out, but the safety on, because I didn't want to shoot anyone unless I had to. It was a stupid move. Especially since there was a woman sitting on my bed, the last room I checked.

"Long time no see." Holly sat there, looking less disheveled than the last time she'd discreetly given me information about some of her contacts in the underworld.

"Didn't know you'd made it."

"Selina, as detached as she was, still watched out for me, even to the end, when she told me that I needed to get out by the south tunnel entrance. Last time I ever saw her—walking out in her cat-suit, hips swaying, looking mighty pleased with herself, like a burden had been lifted off her shoulders. I tried to find her, but she's disappeared." The girl shrugs. "I took a shower. Hope you don't mind. My clothes are in the dryer."

I kick myself mentally again for not noticing that she was wearing a dress that I'd kept shoved in the back of my closet for if I was forced to go to some sort of picnic where a dress was more acceptable. "It's fine. I just need to work on noticing things more quickly." I think back and realize that I should have noticed on entry. The houseplant that I keep the hide-a-key in was moved on the fire escape, and no one moves it since none of the neighbors use the fire escape regularly. I just use it to avoid some of my paranoias.

"You're not doing so hot, are you?" Holly pointed out, noticing the way I stood there, looking around quickly, the terror of my mind probably evident at least in my crazed eyes.

"No, no I'm not," I admit, sitting down on the bed next to her, clicking the safety back on, from when I'd clicked it off when I saw Holly, before holstering it. "I just got back from an extended really weird day after the sudden hook-up with my ex fiancé, I'm not sure if I really do want to quit being a cop, and I'm just so lost and confused. I quit seeing my therapist because I just….."

"It wasn't what you really needed? And then you failed to save someone. Look, I got a mystery message, saying that I needed to come see you. Said to tell you to let them know already if you're not going to come back, but that they really wanted you to take the job. What the hell girl?"

The note. In all the mental and emotional craziness, I'd forgotten about it. "I'm not sure. Just some police shit. Sorry you got involved."

"It's fine. I wanted to tell you that I won't be around anymore. I'm moving away from Gotham, trying to find a safer place. Selina taught me a few things, but not enough to survive on my own hear in Gotham." Holly stood up and padded out towards the living room, or so I thought. I was right, when her voice echoed back from that direction. "I'll be gone soon as my shit is dry."

The precinct was bustling, a team was gearing up to go out on a probation violation search, and I remember when I used to be able to do those, the adrenaline pumping before you even come in contact, the chases, the easy collars, all of it. I remember vividly the feeling of "what's it going to be this time" as I would walk up to a car on a routine traffic stop, wondering if this would be the time my head got blown off. Praying to anything that could hear me that it wouldn't be, always on my guard, knowing that honestly, it's up to me to take care of myself.

"Hey, I'm Casey Ewart. I want to apply for a spot in one of the next academy classes." I'd called Gordon and told him I was going to make my decision based on if I could make it through the hiring process and the academy all over again. He'd called me crazy, but he'd told me that when I made it through, I'd have my pick of commands to choose from, along with shifts, because he'd make sure I got to keep my seniority points. I'd done it right after Holly left, and I hadn't apologized for how late it was, and I knew that he was on the roof of MCU, working.

"Ewart?" The receptionist looked up, took in a sharp breath, then nodded. "You just need to sign these forms. Commissioner Gordon already sent over all your paperwork."

Great. He was going to not listen and help me out more than I wanted, at least with initial hiring. I'm not going to bug him and complain, but it was obvious, he saw me as a good officer still, even when I was a broken piece of shit. I take the paperwork though, face calm and level, and nod at the receptionist. "Thank you ma'am." She's just an office worker, but she's more important than me. She has department id. I don't. Mine expired due to my initial medical retirement shtick.

"No problem. Look, I don't know who you are, but Commissioner Gordon has a high opinion of you, so best of luck." The woman smiles vaguely, tiredly, and goes back to filing tow paperwork, sorting them into reasons and situations and codes and etcetera.

I turn and leave, relishing for a moment the anonymity, before the inevitable pain comes. I used to have a lot of friends on the department. Now, most of them are dead and gone, or just gone, having moved the hell out and away from Gotham after they escaped the tunnels and were reunited with what surviving family they had, if any. The pain is stopped by a smile and a nod from George as he and a small MCU detachment scurry inside, ready to help out on the probations search. They must have some heavy hitters on the list for today. I hold up the paperwork like a badge, and he gives me a thumbs up and elbows the guys around him and point to me, they all flash me a thumbs up, except the man in charge, my nemesis when it came to a lot of things, and then they're all back to business mode.

I walk briskly to the bus station, pushing the paperwork inside my satchel, knowing I need to start on it once I get back to the flat, but not wanting to, not just yet. I'm going to try to come back, but I've got to mentally prepare myself for the stress that it's going to do. I start mentally going through the steps of a proper search using an invisible body as I wait, and I get a few funny looks, before the number 105 bus rolls up. I climb on, swiping my travel pass, and resolve to badger my insurance again tomorrow, about a rental car at least, while they figure out what they're gonna do about the Scion.

There's a text from Blake saying Blaise wants to know if I can come over and have another nerf war with them, but I don't respond. It was fun a first, but then the memories started kicking in, and it got hard to focus and not just freak out and have a panic attack, and I'd like to avoid that around children. It's been a week since I was over there, and Blake keeps trying to see me again. I'd like to figure out what the hell really happened mentally there first, because physically, we fucked.

It takes an hour and a half to wend my way back, via above ground public transit, to my flat, stopping for fifteen of those minutes at the produce specialty store to buy strawberries, because they're delivered fresh today, according to a neighbor, who had seen me looking disgusted at the strawberries that were decidedly not fresh in a fruit salad at the building potluck the other night.

There's already a response to the letter I'd sent the return address on the mystery note.

_Dear Ms. Ewart:_

_ Thank you for reconsidering your decision and deciding to work towards reinstating yourself as Ofc. Ewart. I only address you as Ms. Ewart because I am unsure as to how you would prefer to be addressed, since we've never exactly met, although you may or may not have pointed a gun at me once. Good times, not. _

_ Your instructions remain the same, although your contact is impatient to be able to liaise with GCPD. Your inquiries as to whether or not this is the next Batman figure you're dealing with? I'm afraid that's for you to decide, since I'm removing myself as much as possible from Gotham's situations, except the occasional news bulletin. _

_ Best of luck. _

And that was it. Maybe it was just my curiosity that drove me to want to rejoin the department, even at a low level. Maybe it was a gut feeling that something was up.


	10. Chapter 9

JANUARY

Chapter Nine:

I clip on the shirt stays mechanically. At first I had to get used to it again, six months ago when they fucking expedited me faster than is probably legal into the closest academy class. As a result, I'd been stuck at the fat table until I'd gotten back into shape by forcing myself to do additional PT at night before I crashed. My roommate thought I was insane. Guess no one told her I am, and that several doctors wanted to legally declare me a head case. I disagree, since I made it through all the psych evaluations.

I'd explained to my landlady what I was doing, since she was trustworthy enough, her husband having been a state trooper, as I find out only as I tell her I've got to break my rent, and she told me she'd hold the apartment for me. As I pull my pants up over my socks, shirt stays and pulled down dress shirt, I know that I'm probably not going back to the same place to live, because over the past six months I've struggled to keep my head in the game, to hide it from everyone around me, all over a mysterious note. I'd already let her know, via a letter.

"Ewart? You ready?" My roommate is a stuck-up girl who made her way through the academy since she ran track in school and she studied her arse off every night. She won't make it through FTOs. I can guarantee that because she thinks she's the shit.

"Born ready kiddo," I respond, stepping out of the bathroom into the atrium that connected our dorm room to our neighbors, the perfect picture of a GCPD officer, my one added article being the survivor's pin Gordon had given me yesterday via the staff office, with orders to wear it and wear it proudly. I had told no one that I was former MCU that was going through the academy again to prove that I wasn't a basket case, or that I'd even been in the city at the time. The pin sat by my nametag, quietly telling everyone that I'd been here, and I'd survived, and the MCU designator on it told them that something was up. I hated that bit, and I'd called Gordon to let him know, but he'd just laughed and told me to wait and see.

"You…."

"That's right kiddo," I say, breezing past my roommate and slipping my cover onto my head the moment one of my feet broke the threshold to the outside, mechanical, efficient, and feeling cocky. Yeah, I let a friend down and they died, but it had been hospital error and her own idiocy for the most part. I had been coming to terms with things constantly over the past six months. I could still hear the screams of the dying, and the injured, the panic of those realizing what was going on above, and I'd carry it with me for the rest of my life, but I can stop it happening again or die trying.

I can hear her following me, but I don't care, as I walk with a distinct purpose towards the area where we're lining up for an inspection and for drill, then to march into the auditorium. I can do this.

I didn't ask anyone special to come, since I don't have anyone special. I pin on my own badge, before changing into jeans and a t-shirt, hanging up my uniform in a protective case and grabbing my bags. My badge is in a badge holder in my pocket. Gordon gave me my old number back, after the ceremony, telling me the number I was given was going to be given to me somehow to avoid confusion. People are still gushing over their new officers, so loudly I can hear it in the parking lot as I head to my car and start to load the bags up.

"Congrats Officer Ewart." A familiar voice tells me as George bear hugs me from behind, right as I go to get in the driver's seat.

"I've been here once before and celebrated it then George." I set my keys and unopened duty assignment on the chair and turn around to face him, and, apparently, Blake. "Hey Blake." He looks tired, worn out, but satisfied. "You two conspire about this?"

"No, we just had the same exact idea," Blake tells me, laughing, but his voice screaming that he'd rather be curled up in bed. I file it away in my list of suspicious things about my ex. He's also surprised I was so friendly to him, which surprises me more than him being tired, because I have slept with him since breaking up with him and all that. "So we joined forces. Figured we'd have a better chance if it was two of us convincing you to live a little, since you've been insane and going through this hell again."

"It's not hell, its good training, and I needed it."

"Bullshit," George cried. "You're one of the best Casey." He reached around me and grabbed my duty assignment, waving it in front of my face. "You probably should open this so you can decide where you're going to crash for the night—which cheap hotel right?"

"I have a place," I muttered under my breath, knowing that it was a fib, but that doesn't matter. I've gotten damn good at lying since the occupation.

"You have a conditional offer from a landlady at a place you don't want to go back to because of how you're coping with your still untreated PTSD," George's voice is flat, and I know he's pissed, taking the duty assignment from him and pulling out my knife to slit it open quickly and neatly. "You probably also already declined it."

"MCU. I knew that would be my assignment." I'm pissed. This isn't what I told Gordon I wanted. I'm a patrol officer attached as special duty to MCU but still…

I gunned the engine of the patrol car, letting her roar as best she could, a hot pursuit through the bowels of Gotham. "MCU this is 2280, in pursuit of a black Nissan Sentra, please confirm that the last plate I ran is hot. Requesting back-up and a road block."

My FTO nods and watches the computer screen that flashed red and told us the plates where for a Lamborghini that had been repossessed from Bruce Wayne right before the occupation began.

"10-4, 2280 black Nissan Sentra is hot. What's your 20?"

"Rose at Adams, west bound." I reply, not letting my FTO do anything. Gordon is getting his revenge for my low self-confidence.

"10-4. All units be advised, pursuit in progress, black Nissan Sentra plates Alpha-Mike- Tango-1-9-3 west bound on Rose. It's 0345."

First day back. "Officer Ewart...pull out when back-up arrives. Let the more experienced officers do it."

"Did you read my fucking file?" I snap, jamming my boot down harder on the accelerator, the new Charger not whining like the old Crown Vic's did. Sure it needed more frequent maintenance, but it was much better to drive. "This is car is designed for this. I'm former MCU SWAT. I'm going through this again because of what I went through in the occupation. You were on fucking maternity leave, off on a vacation , out of town. You can fucking bail out if you can't handle it Officer Jones."

I've pretty much just ruined my chances as I screech around cars still moving idiotically down the road, not heading the lights and sirens, and the horn whooping at them to get out of the way. Back-up starts arriving, falling into place, and Jones doesn't push it. She just responds simply. "I didn't read your file, and I don't want to be a fucking FTO."

I end the pursuit at Watertown and Jamison, twenty minutes later, when the Sentra's driving gets to be too erratic, slamming the patrol car into the side of his car, making it spin out.. They bail, and I chase them on foot, Jones staying in the car, having made a phone call the second I bailed out. I know I'm going to be handing in my badge, because I was too screwed up to just go back to work, I had to be a fucking special circumstance.

"Aren't you fags gonna read me my fucking rights?" The punk tries fighting as I shove him in the back of the car, as Jones ends the phone call. I don't respond to him. I have it all on video what he did, and he was driving plates that were stolen, and the VIN on the car didn't match the VIN on the registration paperwork. This bastard is going down.

"Gordon wants to talk to you when you get back to the station," Jones whispered, as we pulled away from the scene, after I waved to a few of the guys that I know, en route to booking..

"So you called him? Sorry I lashed out."

"Don't be." She turned and gave me a half-smile. "You're a freaking legend. I'm a bit freaked out that my first boot as an FTO is you. Do you even need a…"

"What the fuck are you faggots talking about?" The dirtbag speaks up from the back. The computer has already chimed with a message from the communications center. The guy has multiple warrants and all that shit.. Confidential info says he's wanted for felons. Which makes everything that just happened a bit too simple—I spun the computer towards Jones without letting the prisoner see it.

"New assignment. We may have to pawn our prisoner off to another unit." I take a turn to feint going back towards the scene but accelerate slowly, as quietly as possible, heading towards the scene where I knew George and the team were. If shit went down, I wanted them there. I'd unlock the guns if I had a way to turn off the sound on the locks.

"Shit, you're right. Good call." Jones pulls her phone out of the side pocket of the door slowly, knowing that she has a slight advantage since the prisoner is sitting behind her. I adjust the rear mirror so I can see him even better. I can only hope she realizes what I'm doing and sends the text to the right people to bypass the chain of command. I turn the radio down and hit the repeater, so I can hear it in my earpiece at an audible level.

"So, how's the baby?" I ask, trying to keep a calm banter going, since the prisoner has already established that we talk. "Or is that out of place ma'am?"

"No, it's not Casey," she awkwardly tries out my first name and I smile encouragement at her as she slides her phone back into place, clicking off the sound.. "George is good."

I try not to breathe a sigh of relief too obviously, knowing that she had a girl, and she must have texted George. "How'd you get the name George?" My curiosity really could kill me.

"Gordon recommended it when I told him what my hubby and I were worrying about."

"Alright." I sigh, and turn right onto the street that George and the team were on. Their SUV's are out of sight and I know they must be hidden in the alleys. I wondered what sort of play George was going to make about this.

Jones looked around, nervous, and then checked her phone. "Fuck," she whispered. "Wrapped an hour ago."

"Mother fucker," I hiss, and put the pedal to the medal. We're way out of the usual patrol route for this beat, for today at least, since there was an op supposed to be going down.

"What the fuck are you doing you bitches?"

I take a hand off the wheel as I turn onto a main street on two wheels, clicking the lights and sirens on, realizing that stealth and secrecy is no longer a go, before reaching for my radio mike. I hesitate, then go for the radio itself with, switching to channel 5, the channel I used to live on. "Unit 2280 boys, look alive. Rolling Kashmir, Roberts and Timms."

"Kashmir?" Jones asks, looking at me inquisitively.

"I'll tell you if you're cleared for it." Kashmir was the song we had listened to on our way to a call that had been similar. We'd established Kashmir as the code word for if one of us got into that situation again. "Update dispatch." They've been clamoring for news for ten minutes.

I reach for the radio head and tap a few buttons, switching over to radio, pulling up the mix station the team maintained from a communal fund, just as Kashmir came on, the acknowledgement.

_"2280—that you Ewart?" _George squawked over the radio and I breathed a sigh as I took a sharp turn off the main drag towards the shipyards.

"10-4. Eastbound on Eerie."

_"We're on our way kiddo. Keep straight and true. Keep those lights going and get everyone out of your way. Split the lanes. We'll follow the complaint reports. Keep silence unless shit starts happening even worse."_

I look up and notice the plain black helicopter following, and sigh. "Who's the air support?"

_"Fuck." _

I turned Kashmir up louder and slammed the pedal down even harder, willing the car to find the extra umph to go. I will myself not to look at the gas tank.

Jones flicks the gun unlock switch and puts her hand on the shotgun, ready to pull it out in a moment. "I read the file."

For a moment, one moment, I have a lot of respect for her, then shit goes down. Not that shit hadn't already gone down.


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

I crouched behind the wreckage of the patrol car, having pulled out Jones and the driver from the chase, the semi-auto cradled in one arm, doing a vitals check of Jones, who was holding onto the shot gun.

"Jones, you hear me? You gotta come to. I need you to watch my six." I shake her keeping an eye on the prisoner, who thankfully was unconscious.

Jones cracks an eye open. "What happened?"

"Fucking EMP. Someone has some serious reasons why they don't want us capturing this guy."

"He's suspected of knowing where the Joker is."

"Napier?" I want to punch myself for not having put two and two together. The computer just said has info on a top wanted suspect. Couching terms when usually the name would be blaring across the page.

"Yeah," Jones wiped the blood from her bitten tongue off of her mouth and cradled the shot gun, drawing her handgun and pointing it at the prisoner. "I'll watch him. You radio it in?"

"SWAT is on the way. We need to get into a less open position." Behind us is the gated facility that holds all the shipping containers for Wayne Enterprises. No trespassing signs are all over the damn place, but I'm fucking GCPD. I'll fucking go there if that's what I need. "You think you can walk?" I can see her ankle swelling up inside her boot. Really, we were extremely lucky.

"I'll make it. I'll cover you while you get the prisoner though."

"Mark Jukowski. I think we can call him Mark now." Even if he hasn't said one non-expletive filled thing to us all the time we've been dealing with him. I'm going to stay professional.

"Mark then." Jones nods, hauling herself up with my help, before holstering her gun and pointing the shotgun out. "We're goo…." Her head explodes and I realize that this is more than just the Joker. There's something greater at work here.

"Officer down." I whisper into my radio, grabbing onto the prisoner, one armed, dragging him into the barely open gate. It's unlocked, frazzled by the same EMP as hit the car, since nothing electronic seems to be working. I know the radio's dead, but it was still worth it. "Sorry Jones." I slip through the gap, bringing Jukowski with me, keeping the semi-auto pointed, one handed, at the general direction the bullet came from. The helicopter is still ahead, so I start moving as fast as I can with Jukowski. George and everyone, if they'd made it all the way back to headquarters would have to fuck with after incident response teams first, and then they'd be here in maybe twenty minutes, because of how far out I was from the station.

"You bitch." Jukowski mutters, glaring up at me, and I realize that I can't keep moving as easily with him conscious now.

"You bastard," I hiss, holding him up like a shield, inching my way back, keeping full control of his arms, having to sling the semi-auto over my bag and use my handgun now. What I wouldn't give for my helmet and shield right now.

"That won't work," Jukowski whispers, and I hear the gun shot echo off as the bullet hits him in the head, and I duck out of the way, feeling it graze past my skull. "You'll never escape," he wheezes, as his dying words, blood oozing.

I turn and run as fast as I can, sprinting, sides aching, holstering my handgun and going back to the semi-auto again. I turn and cover my back every few seconds, never stopping to catch my breath. No one is following me, which means the tall complexes around me hold the shooters. I can hear screaming from the streets. I look at the containers, wondering if any of them, for the love of anything out there, can be unlocked and I can hide in there, until George can get there, staying down low enough that maybe they won't hit me.

I'm almost in the back region, almost out of options unless I want to climb a barbed fence, when I see it, the unlocked, open a tiny barely noticeable crack container. It's worn, and the label on the side proclaims it hasn't been used into twenty years. I race for it, my hand scrabbling to open the container, and I feel a bullet hit my vest near my shoulder, just barely hitting the skin, make the bullet confused on whether to stop or to go.

I shut the door behind me, letting the darkness engulf me and take a deep breath, closing my eyes, before snapping them back open and taking a step forward. I don't expect what comes next.

The ground beneath me lurches downward, and I start to reach for the walls, but realize that they won't be there to hold onto, as I start going straight down. I step more into the center and face the right, with a perceptive glance to the left every few moments, the semi-automatic rifle at the ready, wondering what the fuck Wayne Enterprises had hidden in this place.

I hear my heart pounding from adrenaline, and I calm down, three seconds in, three seconds out. I've almost calmed down when I start to see bits of light coming in from the right side, so I get more ready than I've already been.

"GCPD!" My shoulder throbs and I see the bullet sticking partially out of my uniform, blood all around it. "MCU SWAT"

A figure wearing jeans and an un-tucked dress shirt stands in front of me, back to me, dark hair. It's a familiar profile, but what they're facing is even more familiar. It's the suit that the new Nightwing lunatic wears. He turns, and I lower my gun.

"Casey? Casey?"

I can't stay standing. I look down and there's a knife sticking in my leg, a little Swiss army knife. Jones missed something in her search. Jones. Oh my God—she wasn't really all that bad. She has a little daughter!

I wake up slowly as Blake stitches up my leg. My shoulder is already dressed and my arm immobilized to my side, but folded across my chest. I'm in my t-shirt, my vest removed and my uniform top yanked from my shirt stays. My radio is sitting on a table by an impressive array of computer screens, and I can see that it's still frazzled. Somewhere a stereo is playing Metallica's "Turn the Page." I tap my good hand to the beat. "Did you let George know I'm safe?"

"I texted him pretending to be you. You have a cheap burner phone for now."

"Everything's screwed?"

"Including your motel key." He finishes the last stitch and puts a cloth and ice pack over the injury. "I better explain."

"I'm guessing you're my midnight meeting I skipped because Jones wanted to eat at Roddy's Taco Stand before he closed it?" Her last meal. I hope it was as good as she thought it was, because I'd hated it.

"Yeah." He yawns, and I notice the black eye growing on his face. "This is Batman's place from when he was having the manor rebuilt."  
"The manor?" I look at him then shake my head. "Yo Gotham Gazette! Brucie and Batty's deaths are related!"

"You're loopy from the morphine."

"You need to reread your doses. I am in sooo much pain." I mumble. "Help me up."

"You're not going anywhere, and I think I pulled a muscle in my shoulder getting you up there."

"Then give me my phone so I can call Gordon and George." I mumble. "I won't say anything."

"You can tell Gordon if you want. He knows, well, he figured it out."

"And no one fucking told me?" I'm mildly pissed, but I take the phone he offers me, and dial George's cell. He picks up almost instantly.

"Hello?"

"Hey. It's me. A little worse for wear, Probably on medical leave already again, but I'm good. I'll call you when I get back to the hotel."

"Alright. You have the semi-auto?"

"Yeah, and my dead radio." I laugh awkwardly. "Look, check the trunk, the car radio system, all that stuff, and Jones' gear. Other than my go-bag, I've got my shit."

"Alright. Take care kiddo. I'm going to get you back on my team."

"Yours? What happened to Phillips?"

"Sex scandal." George's grin can be heard over the phone. I grin myself at the news.

"Awesome. When did this happen?"

"Tonight."

So at least something good did happen tonight. It's that thought that's the last thought I have before the pain and the drugs combined knock me out cold again, but with a graceful elegance, not the hard, rushing black of earlier.

I wake up on a cot this time, with a scratchy blanket pulled up to my shoulders. I'm still in pain, but it's manageable. "Where am I now?"

"Still at the same place," Blake's voice is cold, professional, without much warmth. Like it was after I told him it was over. Like it was when I told him, after sleeping with him, that I wasn't ready to get back together. Now, I don't think that chance is going to come, especially if he keeps acting like this.

"How am I doing doc?" I'm feeling better as I regain more of myself. "How strong of painkillers am I on?"

"You're not on any. You should go see Leslie to make sure you're going to be okay."

"How bad is it?"

"Go see Leslie please Casey. I know you don't want to be put on medical leave again, but you need to be serious about this."

I stand up carefully, wobbling for a moment, then regaining my balance. "Fuck you Blake." And that's that. I stumble out of the elevator, out of the container, and into the evening dusk, to the street, where I pull out the burner, dialing George's number, knowing he'll be on duty, since it's only been a couple days, I hope.

"George, I need a ride, I'm back at the scene."


	12. Epilogue

Epilogue-

I wait, arms crossed across my chest against the cold, still at a ready position in case Nightwing decides to be a problem with his liaison. I spoke with Gordon about the mysterious letter, telling him what I'd be doing. In the month and a half since the incident, I was on desk work, and Gordon had saved me by making me his personal assistant and driver, letting me out, but not too much so that people would complain.

The hardest thing, not just the desk time, was the funeral, standing there, in front of all those people, talking about Jones.

"You're obstinate."

"You finally showed up. I have no clue who asked me to do this, but I'm only doing this for them, not because it's you." It's a lie, but I say it as firmly as I can, so that he can hopefully not see through the bullshit.

"I have an idea who did it, and if I could. I'd throttle her."

"Her?" The word comes out a lot more catty than I meant it to be, laced with jealously.

"Awww, you do still care." He whispers, then hands over a sheaf of printouts. "Look into it, come back when you have something."

I flip it open and recognize the mug shot of the guy who I'm going to serve a warrant on tonight and gulp. "What do you want him for?"

"He's the next piece to the Joker. Why?"

"Keep a better tab on who you're watching. We're serving him tonight. In fact, I'm late for that date right now." I smile at him, and keep the papers with me, as I turn to go.

"Stay safe Casey."

"You too…." I wait until I'm at the door. "Nightwing." Then I disappear back into the MCU building, getting down, two flights, before sinking down to wipe the moisture away from my eyes. The way he said my name.

SIX MONTHS LATER

"That wasn't really necessary, you know," Blake said, from where he sat across the table from me, as we eat our breakfast before hitting the hay. He still works at the orphanage, but he works nights and nights alone, and I'm on graveyards except for when I have to roll during the day for the MCU SWAT.

"It was worth it. The bastard keeps causing more and more trouble. I'm proud to be the officer that killed the joker. Besides, it's not going to be published, and I get a month off while they make sure I did the right thing."

"I don't miss the politics of my job." Blake says, leaning in for a kiss. "You know, I am glad you gave me another chance."  
"What can I say?" I purred, or at least attempted to, "you care."  
"My god you're right Detective," purred a female voice, even more sultry than my attempted purr. "She does have some intriguing similarities." She's tall, slim, dark-haired, and wearing a large sun hat to hide her face, based on how she's standing, from cameras. She seems to be inspecting my hands oddly close. "Introduce us?"

Robin shifts nervously. "I haven't…..not yet…."

"Well, I'm only here on a layover. We wanted to say hello." She gestures to a waiting car with a hooded, capped figure waiting in the driver's seat. "He's worse than a new parent about you."

"How would you know that?" Robin asks, acting tense around this woman.

The woman smiled cattily and I recognized her—the woman who's hard copy file been locked in Gordon's desk, away from where it should be, that he'd had me shred one day. Selina Kyle. She'd been Robin's last arrest as a detective, and Gordon had taken her off the lists of escapees, even though she'd been in Blackgate when it all started. "Things happen." She holds up her left hand, where a diamond ring glints softly.

"I suppose congratulations are in order then." Robin says standing up and putting enough for our food and a tip on the table. "Casey this is…."  
"Selina Kyle. Gordon had me take care of your papers."  
"Awwww, he didn't have to," she purred, applying a new coat of red Chanel lipstick quickly. "Also, I don't go by that name anymore. Just call me Selina though. I don't want to make too many heads turn here. We'll meet you at the cave."

"The cave?" I ask Robin, as we walk out of the diner, hand-in-hand, as Selina and her mysterious companion screech off into the heavy Gotham morning traffic without a second thought.

"Under the mansion. The main base."

"Oh, right," I say, as we turn into the garden to walk towards where we parked, in an actual garage instead of the side of the street, since I have yet another new car, again.

'Look, I know you're not sure about things still yet, but I have a question."

I realize what Selina was alluding to and I smile. "Don't waste your breath. It'll complicate things way too much darling," I whisper, leaning in and kissing him, distracting him as I reach into his pocket and slip the ring out of the box, onto my finger. I pull back and hold it up to the light. "But, I think I'll like the complication. Under one condition."  
"Name it," Robin whispers, as he takes me left hand in his right and we continue walking.

"You tell me everything, from the beginning. Starting with Selina."  
"That's skipping a bit." He protested, as we wait at a crosswalk.

"No, it's starting right where I need to." I smile at him, and hold up my hand with the ring on it. "For better or for worse Robin. As soon as we can stand in front of someone with a license who can marry us."

"A bit rushed are we?"

"You need real health insurance," I mutter, punching his still weak shoulder. "I don't want you ending up like Bruce Wayne did. Or is Selina nursing him through countless expensive surgeries now?"

The look of shock on Robin's face is priceless, and I snap a picture quickly, before starting to cross the street. "Don't make me regret agreeing to marry a masked crusader."

**Author's Note:**

**I do not own anything but the plot and my original characters. Etc. Etc. All rights reserved. I just lost the enthusiasm, so I wrapped it up. I might right a one shot or two about the future, or that take place during the jumps, but I'm done. Casey has an ending, and I lost my original plot line a while ago, and the motivation to write it, I just don't want to leave unfinished pieces dangling expectantly on the web. Reviews are virtual *insert one of your favorite things ie chocolate or hugs here*. **


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